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CAMPERDOWN; 


OB, 


NEWS    FROM 


OUR    NEIGHBOURHOOD 


SKETCHES, 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  "OUR  NEIGHBOURHOOD,"  &C. 


PHILADELPHIA.- 
CAREY,  LEA  &  BLANCHARD. 

1836. 


Eittehed  according-  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1836, 
by  Caret,  Lea  &  Blanchaud,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the 
District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


Ui 


DEDICATION. 


THIS    LITTLE    VOLUME    IS    DEDICATED    TO 

A  lady  distinguished  as  a  writer  and  an  artist; 
and  esteemed  by  her  friends  for  her  domestic 
virtues.  With  her  accomplishments,  and  excel- 
lence of  character,  she  would  be  appreciated  any 
where;  but  it  has  been  her  peculiar  good  fortune 
to  belong  to  Boston;  a  place,  above  all  others, 

wherein  a  woman  receives  that  high  respect  and 

»  * 

consideration  to  which  she  is  so  justly  entitled. 


PREFACE. 

A  few  years  ago  a  book  was  published,  called 
"Our  Neighbourhood;"  and  those  who  read  it, 
will  recollect  that  the  author  intended,  in  the  se- 
cond series,  to  give  a  short  sketch  of  some  of  the 
most  conspicuous  characters  therein  mentioned. 
The  second  series  is  now  presented  to  the  public, 
and  is  called  "  Camperdown,"  the  name  of  our 
neighbourhood.  The  work  will  be  continued,  un- 
der different  titles,  until  the  author  has  accom- 
plished the  object  stated  in  the  preface  to  the  first 
series ;  and  which  the  tenor  of  the  two  volumes 
will  more  fully  explain. 


THREE  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


It  is  seldom  that  men  begin  to  muse  and  sit  alone 
in  the  twilight  until  they  arrive  at  the  age  of  fifty, 
for  until  that  period  the  cares  of  the  world  and"  the 
education  of  their  young  children  engross  all  then- 
thoughts,  Edgar  Hastings,  our  hero,  at  thirty 
years  of  age  was  still  unmarried,  but  he  had  gone 
through  a  vast  deal  of  excitement,  and  the  age  of 
musing  had  been  anticipated  by  twenty  years. 
He  was  left  an  orphan  at  fourteen,  with  a  large  in- 
come, and  the  gentleman  who  had  the  management 
of  his  estates  proved  faithful,  so  that  when  a  person 
of  talents  and  character  was  wanted  to  travel  with 
the  young  man,  a  liberal  recompense  was  at  hand 
to  secure  his  services.  From  the  age  of  fourteen 
to  twenty-one  he  was  therefore  travelling  over 
Europe ;  but  his  education,  instead  of  receiving  a 
check,  went  on  much  more  advantageously  than  if 
he  had  remained  at  home,  and  he  became  master 
of  all  the  modern  languages  in  the  very  countries 
where  they  were  spoken.  The  last  twelve  months 
of  his  seven  years'  tour  was  spent  in  England,  be- 
ing stationary  in  London  only  during  the  sitting  of 
Parliament. 


10  THREE    HUNDRED 

His  talents  thus  cultivated,  and  his  mind  enlarged 
by  liberal  travel,  he  returned  to  America  well 
worthy  the  friendship  and  attention  of  those  who 
admire  and  appreciate  a  character  of  his  stamp. 
He  had  not  therefore  been  back  more  than  a  year, 
before  his  society  was  courted  by  some  of  the  best 
men  in  the  country;  but  previous  to  his  settling 
himself  into  a  home,  he  thought  it  but  proper  to  tra- 
vel through  his  own  country  also.  His  old  friend, 
still  at  his  elbow,  accompanied  him;  but  at  the  close 
of  the  excursion,  which  lasted  nearly  two  years,  he 
was  taken  ill  of  a  fever  caught  from  an  exposure 
near  the  Lakes,  and  died  after  a  few  days'  illness. 

Edgar  Hastings  was  now  entirely  alone  in  the 
world,  and  he  would  have  fallen  into  a  deep  melan- 
choly, had  he  not  engaged  in  politics.  This  occu- 
pied him  incessantly;  and,  as  his  purse  was  ample 
and  his  heart  liberally  disposed,  he  found  the  de- 
mands on  his  time  gradually  increasing.  He  had 
occupations  heaped  upon  him — for  rich,  disengaged, 
and  willing,  every  body  demanded  his  aid ;  and 
such  were  the  enthusiasm  and  generosity  of  his  na- 
ture, that  no  one  applied  in  vain. 

His  first  intention,  on  returning  from  his  tour 
through  his  own  country,  was  to  improve  an  estate 
he  had  purchased  in  Pennsylvania,  promising  him- 
self an  amiable  and  beautiful  wife  to  share  his  hap- 
piness; but  politics  interfered,  and  left  him  no  time 
even  for  the  luxury  of  musing  in  the  evening.  But 
a  man  can  get  weary  of  politics  as  well  as  of  any 
other  hard  up-hill  work;  so,  at  the  end  of  seven 
years,  seeing  that  the  young  trees  which  he  had 
planted  were  giving  shade,  and  that  the  house  that 
they  were  to  overshadow  was  not  yet  begun,  he 
fell  to  musing.  He  wanted  something,  likewise,  to 
love  and  protect — so  he  fell  to  musing  about  that. 
He  wished  to  convert  a  brisk  stream,  that  fell  down 
the  side  of  a  hill  opposite  to  the  south  end  of  his 


YEARS  HENCE-  11 

grounds,  into  a  waterfall — so  he  fell  to  musing 
about  that.  He  wanted  to  make  an  opening  through 
a  noble  piece  of  woods  that  bounded  the  north  side, 
that  he  might  catch  a  view  of  the  village  steeple — 
so  he  fell  to  musing  about  that.  A  beautiful  wind- 
ing river  lay  in  front  of  his  estate,  the  bank  of  which 
sloped  down  to  the  water's  edge ;  this  tranquillizing 
scene  likewise  operated  on  his  feelings,  so  that  poli- 
tics faded  away,  and  his  mind  became  calm  and 
serene.  Thus  it  was,  that  at  thirty  years  of  age  he 
had  these  fits  of  abstraction,  and  he  became  a 
muser. 

Men  of  his  age — sensible  men — are  not  so  easily 
pleased  as  those  who  are  younger.  He  admired 
graceful,  easy  manners,  and  a  polished  mind,  far 
before  beauty  or  wealth;  and  thus  fastidious,  he 
doubted  whether  he  should  marry  at  all.  Every 
now  and  then,  too,  an  old  bachelor  feeling  came 
over  him,  and  he  feared  that  when  his  beloved  twi- 
light found  him  sitting  under  the  noble  porticos 
which  he  intended  to  build,  his  wife  would  drag 
him  away  to  some  far  distant  route  in  the  city;  or 
that  she  would,  untimely,  fill  the  house  with  visiters. 
So,  with  all  the  dispositions  in  the  world,  he  lived 
alone,  though  every  fit  of  musing  ended  by  finding 
a  wife  at  his  side,  gazing  on  the  dim  and  fading 
landscape  with  him. 

While  his  house  was  building,  he  occupied  a 
small  stone  farm  house,  at  the  extremity  of  the  es- 
tate. Here  he  brought  his  valuable  books  and 
print?,  well  secured  from  damp  and  insects  by  aro- 
matic oils;  here  did  he  draw  his  plans  during  the 
day,  and  here,  under  a  small  piazza,  did  he  medi- 
tate in  the  evening,  transferring  his  musings  to  the 
little  parlour  as  soon  as  the  damp  evenings  of  autumn 
compelled  him  to  sit  within  doors. 

Adjoining  his  estate  lived  a  quaker,  by  the  name 
of  Harley,  a  steady,  upright  man,  loving  his  ease. 


12  THREE  HUNDRED 

as  all  quakers  do,  but  having  no  objection  to  see 
his  neighbours  finer  or  wiser  than  himself.  He  took 
a  fancy  to  our  hero,  and  the  beloved  evening  hour 
often  found  him  sitting  on  the  settee  with  Hastings, 
when,  after  enjoying  together  an  animated  conver- 
sation, he  also  would  fall  into  the  deep  feeling  which 
fading  scenery,  and  the  energy  of  such  a  character 
as  his  young  friend's,  wrould  naturally  excite  in  a 
mind  so  tranquil  as  his  own. 

At  length,  the  quiet  quaker  spoke  of  his  daughter, 
but  it  was  not  with  a  view  to  draw  Edgar's  atten- 
tion; he  mentioned  her  incidentally,  and  the  young 
man  was  delighted.  In  a  moment,  his  imagination 
depicted  her  as  a  beautiful,  graceful,  accomplished 
creature ;  and  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she 
was  amiable  and  gentle ;  so  he  strolled  over  to  his 
friend's  house,  and  was  regularly  introduced  to  her. 
She  was  beautiful,  and  amiable,  and  gentle — all  this 
he  saw  at  a  glance;  but,  alas!  she  had  no  accom- 
plishment farther  than  that  she  wrote  an  exquisitely 
clear,  neat  hand,  and  was  an  excellent  botanist  and 
florist.  But  "propinquity"  softened  down  all  ob- 
jections. Every  time  he  strayed  away  to  Pine 
Grove  the  eligibilities  of  the  match  became  more 
apparent,  and  his  love  of  grace  and  polish  of  mind 
.seemed  to  be  of  comparatively  little  importance, 
when  he  listened  to  the  breathings  of  the  innocent 
quaker,  who  thought  all  of  beauty  was  in  a  flower, 
and  who  infinitely  preferred  the  perfume  of  a  rose 
or  a  lilac,  to  the  smell  of  a  dozen  lamps  in  a  crowd- 
ed room.    Her  name  was  Ophelia,  too. 

Mr.  Harley,  or  friend  Harlcy  as  he  was  called, 
was  nowise  rigid  in  his  creed;  for  the  recent  law- 
suits between  the  Orthodox  and  Hicksite  quakers 
had  very  much  weakened  his  attachments  to  the 
forms  of  quakerism.  He  found  that  the  irritable 
portion  of  his  society  had  great  difficulty  in  keeping 
hands  off,  and  in  preserving  the  decorum  of  their 


I 


VEARS  HENCE.  13 

order.  Peaceful  feelings,  equable  temperaments, 
being  the  foundation — the  cement,  which,  for  so 
many  years,  had  bound  the  fraternity  together, 
were  now  displaced  for  the  anger  and  turbulence 
so  often  displayed  by  other  sects  of  Christians. 

Litigations  amongst  themselves — the  law — had 
done  that  which  neither  fine  nor  imprisonment,  the 
derision  nor  impositions  of  other  sects,  could  ac- 
complish. The  strong  cement  had  cracked  along 
the  edge  of  the  bulwarks,  where  strength  was  the 
most  necessary,  and  the  waters  of  discord  and  dis- 
union were  insinuating  themselves  into  every  open- 
ing. The  superstructure  was  fast  crumbling  away, 
and  friend  Harley  looked  to  the  no  very  distant 
period  when  his  posterity  should  cast  off  the  quaker 
dress,  and  naturally  follow  the  customs  and  obey  the 
general  laws  which  govern  the  whole  body  of 
Americans. 

This  was  sensible  Valentine  Harley's  opinion  and 
feeling;  in  rules  of  faith  he  had  never  been  induct- 
ed— are  there  any  quakers,  apart  from  a  few  of 
their  leaders,  who  can  define  what  their  religious 
faith  is  1  So,  although  he  loved  the  forms  in  which 
he  had  been  educated — although  he  wore  the  quaker 
dress,  and  made  his  son  and  daughter  do  the  same 
— yet  when  Edgar  Hastings  left  off  musing  in  the 
twilight,  and  was  seen  at  that  hour  walking  slowly 
down  the  glen,  with  Ophelia  hanging  on  his  arm, 
he  only  heaved  a  sigh,  and  wished  that  the  youn°- 
man  said  thee  and  thou.  But  this  sigh  was  far  from 
being  a  painful  one;  he  felt  that  when  the  obscure 
grave,  which  shuts  out  all  trace  of  the  quaker's 
place  of  rest,  should  close  over  him,  his  memory 
would  live  fresh  and  green  in  the  heart  of  his 
daughter.  Far  more  should  he  be  reverenced,  if 
lie  gave  her  gentle^ spirit  to  the  strong  arm,  the 
highly  gifted  mind  of  such  a  man  as  Edgar  Hast- 
ings, than  if  he  compelled  her  to  marry  a  man  of 
b2 


14  THREE  HUNDRED 

their  own  order — to  the  one  who  was  now  prefer- 
ing  his  suit,  friend  Hezekiah  Connerthwaite,  a  rich, 
respectable,  yet  narrow  minded  and  uneducated 
man. 

That  he  consented  to  his  daughter's  marriage 
willingly,  and  without  an  inward  struggle,  was  a 
thing  not  to  be  expected;  but  he  was  too  manly, 
too  virtuous,  to  use  a  mean  subterfuge  with  his  sect 
that  he  might  escape  the  odium  which  falls  on  the 
parent  who  allows  his  daughter  to  marry  out  of  the 
pale.  He  would  not  suffer  his  child  to  wed  clan- 
destinely, when  in  reality  his  heart  and  reason  ap- 
proved of  her  choice  ;  when  her  lover's  merits  and 
claims,  and  her  own  happiness,  strongly  over- 
balanced his  scruples.  She  might  have  married 
privately,  and  her  father,  thus  rid  of  the  blame  of 
consenting  to  her  apostacy,  could,  as  usual,  take 
his  seat  in  their  place  of  worship,  without  the  fear 
of  excommunication.  But  Valentine  Harley  scorned 
such  duplicity  and  foolishness;  Ophelia  was  there- 
lore  married  under  her  fathers  roof,  and  received 
her  father's  blessing ;  and  here,  in  this  well  regu- 
lated house,  Edgar  Hastings  spent  the  first  yearof 
his  wedded  life.  Here,  too,  his  son  was  born ;  and 
now  no  longer  a  being  without  kindred  or  a  home, 
he  found  how  much  happier  were  the  feelings,  of  a 
husband  and  father  than  those  of  a  selfish,  isolated 
being. 

As  he  was  building  a  spacious,  elegant,  and  du- 
rable mansion,  one  that  should  last  for  many  years, 
he  went  slowly  to  work.  It  was  begun  a  year  be- 
fore his  marriage,  and  it  was  not  until  his  young 
son  was  three  months  old  that  he  could  remove  his 
family,  of  which  Mr.  Harley  now  made  a  part,  to 
their  permanent  home.  The  younger  Harley,  who 
had  married  and  settled  at  a  distance,  being  induced 
to  come  among  them,  again  tolake  the  property  at 
1  me  Grove,  thus  adding  another  link  to  the  bond 


YEARS  HEXCE.  15 

of  friendship  which  this  happy  marriage  had  cre- 
ated. In  the  month  of  May  the  younger  Harley 
was  expected  to  take  possession  of  his  father's 
house. 

It  was  now  February.  The  new  house  was  com- 
pletely furnished,  and  every  thing  ready  for  their 
removal  as  soon  as  Mr.  Hastings  returned  from 
New  York,  where  he  had  some  business  of  import- 
ance to  transact.  As  it  called  for  immediate  atten- 
tion, he  deferred  unpacking  his  books,  or  indeed 
taking  them  from  the  farm  house,  until  his  return. 
It  was  with  great  reluctance  that  he  left  his  wife, 
who  grieved  as  if  the  separation  was  to  last  for 
years  instead  of  a  fortnight;  but  he  was  compelled 
to  go,  so  after  a  thousand  charges  to  take  care  of 
her  health,  and  imploring  her  father  to  watch  over 
her  and  his  little  boy,  he  once  more  embraced  them 
and  tore  himself  away.  His  wife  followed  him 
with  her  eyes  until  she  saw  him  pass  their  new 
habitation,  cross  over  the  stile  and  turn  the  angle ; 
here  he  stopped  to  take  one  more  look  at  the  spot 
where  all  he  loved  dwelt,  and  seeing  the  group  still 
looking  towards  him,  he  waved  his  handkerchief, 
and  a  few  steps  farther  hid  him  from  their  sight. 

The  farm  house  was  at  the  extremity  of  the  es- 
tate, and  as  it  lay  on  the  road  leading  to  the  ferry, 
he  thought  he  would  look  at  the  fire  which  had 
been  burning  in  the  grate  all  the  morning.  Mr. 
Harley  said  he  would  extinguish  it  in  the  afternoon, 
and  lock  up  the  house,  but  still  he  felt  a  curiosity  to 
sec  whether  all  was  safe.  His  servant,  with  the 
baggage,  had  preceded  him,  and  was  now  waiting 
for  him  at  the  boat;  so  he  hurried  in,  and  passed 
from  the  hall  to  the  middle  room,  where  the  books 
were.  Here  he  found  an  old  man  sitting,  appa- 
rently warming  himself  by  the  still  glowing  coals, 
who  made  an  apology  for  the  intrusion,  by  saying 


18  THREE  HUNDRED 

that  he  was  very  cold,  and  seeing  a  fire  burning, 
for  he  had  looked  in  at  the  window,  he  made  bold 
to  enter. 

Mr.  Hastings  bade  him  sit  still,  but  the  man  said 
he  was  about  to  cross  the  ferry  and  must  hurry 
on,  observing  that  he  thought  there  would  be  a 
great  thaw  before  morning,  "and  in  that  case," 
said  he,  pointing  up  to  the  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which 
the  house  stood,  "that  great  bank  of  snow  will 
come  down  and  crush  the  roof  of  this  house." 
Hastings  looked  up  and  saw  the  dangerous  position 
of  the  snow  bank,  and  likewise  apprehending  a 
thaw,  he  begged  the  man  to  hurry  on  and  tell  his 
servant  to  go  over  with  his  baggage,  and  get  all 
things  in  readiness  for  him  on  the  other  side,  and 
that  he  would  wait  for  the  next  boat,  which  crossed 
in  fifteen  minutes  after  the  other.  He  gave  the 
poor  man  a  small  piece  of  money,  and  after  he  left 
the  house  Hastings  wrote  a  note  about  the  snow 
bank  to  Mr.  Harley,  which  he  knew  that  gentleman 
would  see,  as  he  was  to  be  there  in  the  afternoon. 
Knowing  that  he  should  hear  the  steam  boat  bell, 
and  feeling  cold,  he  drew  an  old  fashioned  chair, 
something  in  the  form  of  an  easy  chair,  and  fell  into 
one  of  his  old  fits  of  musing.  He  thought  i-i  would 
not  be  prudent  to  return  to  his  family  merely  to  say 
farewell  again,  even  if  there  were  time,  but  a  melan- 
choly  would  creep  over  him,  as  if  a  final  separation 
were  about  to  take  place.  In  vain  he  tried  to  rouse 
himself  and  shake  it  off;  he  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  by 
doing  so  he  could  shut  out  thought,  and  it  did,  for 
in  less  than  five  minutes  he  was  fast  asleep. 


YEARS  HENCE.  17 


CHAPTER  II. 


Hearing  a  noise,  he  suddenly  started  up.  It 
was  dusk,  and  having  lain  long  in  one  position,  he 
felt  so  stiff  as  to  move  with  difficulty;  on  turning 
iiis  head,  he  saw  two  strangers  looking  at  him  with 
wonder  and  pity.  "Is  the  steamboat  ready?"  ex- 
claimed he,  still  confused  with  his  long  sleep.  "  Has 
the  bell  rung,  gentlemen  1  Bless  me,  I  have  over- 
slept myself — what  o'clock  is  it  1  Why,  it  is  almost 
dark — I  am  ashamed  of  myself." 

Finding,  after  one  or  two  attempts,  that  he  could 
not  get  up  easily,  the  two  strangers  hastened  for- 
ward and  assisted  him  to  rise.  They  led  him  to 
the  door,  but  here  the  confusion  of  his  mind  seemed 
rather  to  increase  than  diminish,  for  he  found  him- 
self in  a  strange  place.  To  be  sure,  there  lay  the 
river,  and  the  hills  on  the  opposite  shore  still  rose 
in  grandeur ;  but  that  which  was  a  wide  river,  now 
appeared  to  be  a  narrow  stream ;  and  where  his 
beautiful  estate  lay,  stretching  far  to  the  south,  was 
covered  by  a  populous  city,  the  steeples  and  towers 
of  which  were  still  illuminated  by  the  last  rays  of 
the  sun. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  bewildered  man,  "  I  am 
in  a  strange  perplexity.  I  fell  asleep  at  noon  in 
this  house,  which  belongs  to  me,  and  after  remain- 
ing in  this  deep  repose  for  six  hours  I  awoke,  and 
find  myself  utterly  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  where 
I  am.  Surely  I  am  in  a  dream,  or  my  senses  are 
leaving  me." 

"  You  are  not  dreaming,  neither  is  your  mind 
wandering ;  a  strange  fate  is  yours,"  said  the  elder 
of  the  two  young  men,  When  you  are  a  little  more 
composed  we  will  tell  you  how  all  this  has  hap- 
pened; meantime,  you  must  come  with  me  ;  I  shall 


18  THREE  HUNDRED 

take  you  where  you  will  find  a  home  and  a  wel- 
come." 

"What  is  your  name,"  said  the  astonished  Hast- 
ings, "and  how  have  I  been  transported  hither." 

"  My  name  is  Edgar  Hastings,"  said  the  young 
man ;  "  and  I  feel  assured  that  yours  is  the  same. 
If  I  thought  you  had  sufficient  fortitude  to  hear  the 
strange  events  which  have  occurred,  I  would  tell 
you  at  once;  but  you  had  better  come  with  me, 
and  during  the  evening  you  shall  know  all." 

Hastings  suffered  himself  to  be  led  by  the  two 
strangers,  as  he  felt  cramped  and  chilly;  but  every 
step  he  took  revived  some  singular  train  of  thought. 
As  he  proceeded,  he  saw  what  appeared  to  be  his 
own  house,  for  the  shape,  dimensions  and  situation 
were  like  the  one  he  built,  and  the  distance  and 
direction  from  his  farm  house  was  the  same.  What 
astonished  him  most  was  the  trees ;  when  he  saw 
them  last  they  were  silver  pines,  chestnuts,  catal- 
pas,  locusts  and  sycamores — now  the  few  that  re- 
mained were  only  oak  and  willow;  they  were  of 
enormous  size,  and  appeared  aged. 

"  I  must  wait,  I  see,"  said  poor  Hastings,  "for  an 
explanation  of  all  this  ;  my  hope  is,  that  I  am  dream- 
ing. Here  lie  trees  newly  felled,  immense  trees 
they  are,  and  they  grew  on  a  spot  where  I  formerly 
had  a  range  of  offices.  I  shall  awake  to-morrow, 
no  doubt,"  said  he,  faintly  smiling,  "  and  find  my- 
self recompensed  for  this  miserable  dream.  Pray 
what  is  your  name?' — turning  to.  the  younger  of 
the  two  men. 

"  My  name  is  Valentine  Harley,  and  I,am  related 
to  this  gentleman  ;  our  family  have,  at  intervals, 
intermarried,  for  upwards  of  three  hundred  years." 

"Valentine  Harley!"  exclaimed  Hastings,  "  that 
is  the  name  of  my  wife's  father.  There  never  was 
any  of  the  name  of  Valentine,' to  my  knowledge, 
but  his ;  and  T  did  not  know  that  there  was  another 


YEARS  HENCE.  19 

Edgar  Hastings  in  existence,  excepting  myself  and 
my  yonng  son." 

They  were  now  in  front  of  the  house — the  mas- 
sive north  portico  had  been  replaced  by  another  of 
different  shape;  the  windows  were  altered;  the 
vestibule,  the  main  hall,  the  staircase,  no  longer  the 
same — yet  the  general  plan  was  familiar,  and  when 
they  opened  the  door  of  a  small  room  in  the  north 
wing,  he  found  it  exactly  to  correspond  with  what 
he  had  intended  for  his  laboratory. 

After  persuading  him  to  take  some  refreshments, 
they  conducted  him  to  his  chamber,  and  the  two 
young  men  related  to  the  astonished  Hastings  what 
follows.  We  shall  not  stop  to  speak  of  his  surprise, 
his  sufferings,  his  mortal  agony — nor  of  the  inter- 
ruptions which  naturally  took  place  ;  but  the  group 
sat  up  till  midnight.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  not 
one  of  the  three  closed  his  eyes  the  remainder  of 
the  night. 

"  Early  this  morning,"  began  the  younger  Edgar 
Hastings — "  and  be  not  dismayed  when  I  tell  you, 
that  instead  of  the  15th  of  February,  1835,  it  is  now 
the  15th  of  April,  2135 — several  of  us' stood  looking 
at  some  labourers  who  were  at  work  cutting  a  street 
through  the  adjoining  hill.  Our  engines  had  suc- 
ceeded in  removing  the  trees,  rocks  and  stones, 
which  lay  embedded  in  the  large  mounds  of  earth, 
and  about  ten  o'clock  the  street,  with  the  exception 
of  the  great  mass  which  covered  your  farm  house, 
was  entirely  cut  through  to  the  river.  This  portion 
of  it  would  have  been  also  removed,  but  both  from 
papers  in  my  possession  and  tradition,  a  stone 
building,  containing  many  valuable  articles,  was 
supposed  to  be  buried  there,  by  the  fall  of  the  hill 
near  which  it  stood. 

"To  extend  the  city,  which  is  called  Hamilton, 
my  property,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  your  property, 
was  from  time  to  time  sold,  till  at  length  nothing 


20  THREE  HUiVDUED 

remains  in  our  possession  but  this  house  and  a  few 
acres  of  ground;  the  last  we  sold  was  that  strip  on 
which  your  farm  house  stands.  It  was  with  great 
reluctance  that  I  parted  with  this  portion,  as  I  could 
not  but  consider  it  as  your  sepulchre,  which  in  fact 
it  has  proved  to  be. 

"When  they  commenced  cutting  through  the 
hill  the  top  was  covered  with  large  oaks,  some  of 
which,  when  sawed  through,  showed  that  they  were 
upwards  of  a  century  old;  and  one  in  particular, 
which  stood  on  the  boundary  line,  had  been  desig- 
nated as  a  landmark  in  all  the  old  title  deeds  of  two 
hundred  years'  standing. 

"  About  three  hours  before  you  were  liberated 
the  workmen  came  to  a  solid  stratum  of  ice,  a  phe- 
nomenon so  extraordinary,  that  all  the  people  in  the 
vicinity  gathered  to  the  spot  to  talk  and  ponder  over 
it.  An  aged  man,  upwards  of  ninety,  but  with  his 
faculties  unimpaired,  was  among  the  number  pre- 
sent. He  said,  that  in  his  youth  his  great  grand- 
father had  often  spoken  of  a  tradition  respecting 
this  hill.  It  was  reported  to  have  been  much  higher, 
and  that  a  ravine,  or  rather  a  precipitous  slope,  a 
little  below  the  road,  was  quite  filled  up  by  the  over- 
throw of  the  hill.  That  the  fall  had  been  occasioned 
by  an  earthquake,  and  the  peak  of  the  hill,  after 
dislodging  a  huge  rock,  had  entirely  covered  up  a 
stone  building  which  contained  a  large  treasure. 
He  very  well  remembered  hearing  his  aged  relative 
say,  that  the  hill  was  covered  with  immense  pines 
and  chestnuts. 

"  The  truth  of  part  of  this  story  was  corrobo- 
rated by  ancient  documents  in  my  possession,  and 
I  hastened  to  my  library  to  search  for  some  old 
family  papers,  which  had  been  transmitted  to  me 
with  great  care.  I  soon  found  what  I  wanted,  and 
with  a  map  of  the  estate,  in  which,  from  father  to 
son,  all  the  alterations  of  time  had  been  carefully 


YEARS  HENCE.  21 

marked  down,  I  was  able  to  point  out  the  exact 
spot  on  which  the  old  stone  farm  house  stood. 
In  a  letter  from  a  gentleman  named  Valentine 
Harley,  which,  with  several  from  the  same  hand, 
accompanied  the  different  maps,  an  account  was 
given  of  the  avalanche  which  buried  the  house 
and  filled  up  the  ravine  and  gap  below.  As  the 
originals  were  likely  to  be  destroyed  by  time,  they 
had  been  copied  in  a  large  book,  containing  all  the 
records  of  the  family,  which,  from  period  to  period, 
receive  the  attestation  of  the  proper  recording  offi- 
cer, so  that  you  may  look  upon  these  documents  as 
a  faithful  transcript  of  every  thing  of  moment  that 
has  occurred  within  the  last  three  hundred  years. 
It  was  only  last  November  that  I  entered  an  account 
of  the  sale  of  this  very  strip  of  land  in  which  the 
stone  house  lay. 

"  Here  is  the  first  thing  on  record — a  letter,  as  I 
observed,  from  the  father-in-law  of  Edgar  Hast- 
ings, my  great  ancestor — but  I  forget  that  it  is  of 
you  he  speaks.  Believe  me,  dear  sir,  that  most 
deeply  do  we  sympathize  with  you;  but  your  case 
is  so  singular,  and  the  period  in  which  all  this  suf- 
fering occurred  is  so  very  remote,  that  your  strong 
sense  will  teach  you  to  bear  your  extraordinary 
fate  like  a  man.  Allow  me  to  read  the  letter ;  it  is 
directed  to  James  Harley,  son  to  the  above  men- 
tioned Valentine  Harley. 

"  'Second  month,  17th,  1834.  My  dear  son — 
Stay  where  thou  art,  for  thy  presence  will  but 
aggravate  our  grief.  I  will  give  thee  all  the  par- 
ticulars of  the  dreadful  calamity  which  has  be- 
fallen us.  I  have  not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock, 
and  thy  sister  is  in  the  deepest  wo;  but  it  is  proper 
that  thou  shouldst  know  the  truth,  and  there  is  no 
one  to  tell  thee  but  myself.  On  Monday  the  15th, 
my  dear  son  Edgar  Hastings  took  a  tender  fare- 
c 


22  THREE  HUNDRED 

well  of  thy  sister  and  his  babe,  shaking  hands  with 
me  in  so  earnest  and  solemn  a  manner,  that  one 
prone  to  superstition  would  have  said  it  was  pro- 
phetic of  evil.  -We  saw  him  walk  briskly  along 
the  road  until  the  angle,  which  thou  knowest  is 
made  by  the  great  hill,  shut  him  from  our  sight ; 
but  just  before  he  turned  the  angle  he  cast  a  look 
towards  the  house  wherein  all  his  treasure  lay,  and 
seeing  that  we  were  watching  his  steps,  he  waved 
his  handkerchief  and  disappeared.  His  intention, 
thou  knowrest,was  to  proceed  to  New  York;  Samuel, 
his  faithful  servant,  was  to  accompany  him,  and 
had  gone  forward  in  the  carriage  with  the  baggage, 
as  Edgar  preferred  to  walk  to  the  boat.  Thy  poor 
sister  and  myself  stood  on  the  old  piazza  waiting 
until  the  little  steamboat — it  was  the  Black  Hawk — 
should  turn  the  great  bend  and  appear  in  sight,  for 
it  was  natural,  thou  knowest,  to  linger  and  look  at 
the  vessel  which  held  one  so  dear  to  us  both.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  thy  sister  had  been  separated 
from  Edgar,  and  she  stood  weeping  silently,  leaning 
on  my  arm,  as  the  little  steamboat  shot  briskly  round 
the  bend  and  appeared  full  in  sight.  Thou  must 
recollect  that  the  channel  brings  the  boat  nearly 
opposite  the  stone  farm  house,  and  even  at  that  dis- 
tance, although  we  could  not  distinguish  features 
or  person,  yet  w*e  fancied  we  saw  the  waving  of  a 
handkerchief.  At  that  instant  the  Black  Hawk 
blew  up,  every  thing  went  asunder,  and  to  my  af- 
frighted soul  the  boat  appeared  to  rise  many  feet 
out  of  the  water.  I  cannot  paint  to  thee  our  agony, 
or  speak  of  the  profound  grief,  the  unextinguishable 
grief,  of  thy  dear  sister ;  she  lies  still  in  silent  wo, 
and  who  is  there,  save  her  Maker,  who  dares  to  com- 
fort her. 

"  'I  told  thee  in  a  previous  letter,  written  1  believe 
on  the  12th,  that  I  apprehended  a  sudden  thaw.  I 
mentioned  my  fears  to  our  dear  Edgar,  and  with 


VEARS  HEIx'CE.  23 

his  usual  prudence  he  gave  orders  to  strengthen 
some  of  the  embankments  below  the  ravine.  Among 
other  things  I  thought  of  his  valuable  books  and  in- 
struments., which  still  remained  in  the  stone  farm 
house,  and  that  very  afternoon  I  intended  to  have 
them  removed  to  Elmwood.  At  the  instant  the 
dreadful  explosion  took  place,  the  great  snow  bank, 
which  thou  recollectest  lav  above  the  house  in  the 
hollow  of  the  hill,  slid  down  and  entirely  covered 
the  building;  and,  in  another  second,  the  high  peak 
of  the  hill,  heavily  covered  with  large  pines,  fell 
down  and  buried  itself  in  the  ravine  and  gap  below. 
The  building  and  all  its  valuable  contents  lie  buried 
deep  below  the  immense  mass  of  earth,  but  we  stop 
not  in  our  grief  to  care  for  it,  as  he  who  delighted 
in  them  is  gone  from  us  for  ever. 

"  '  Thy  sister,  thy  poor  sister,  when  the  first  hor- 
rible shock  was  over,  would  cling  to  the  hope  that 
£dgar  might  be  spared,  and  it  was  with  the  great- 
est difficulty  that  I  could  prevent  her  from  flyin* 
to  the  spot  where  the  crowd  had  collected.  Alas" 
no  one  lived  to  tell  how  death  had  overtaken  them. 
Oi  the  five  persons  engaged  on  board,  three  of  their 
bodies  have  since  been  found ;  this  was  in  dragging 
the  water.  It  seems  there  were  but  few  passengers', 
perhaps  only  our  beloved  Edgar,  his  poor  servant 
bamuel,  and  one  or  two  others.  An  old  man  was 
seen  to  enter  the  boat  just  as  she  was  moving  off; 
his  body  was  found  on  the  bank,  and  on  searching 
his  pockets  a  small  piece  of  silver,  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar,  was  taken  out,  which  I  knew  in  a  moment ; 
it  was  mine  only  an  hour  before,  and  had  three 
Jittle  crosses  deeply  indented  on  the  rim,  with  a  hole 
m  the  centre  of  the  coin  ;  I  made  these  marks  on  it 
the  day  before,  for  a  particular  purpose ;  1  could 
therefore  identify  the  money  at  once.  About  an 
hour  before  Edgar  left  us,  thinking  he  might  want 
small  silver,  I  gave  him  a  handful,  and  this  piece 


24  THREE  HUNDRED 

was,  among  the  number.  He  must  have  given  it  to 
the  man  as  soon  as  he  got  on  board,  perhaps  for 
charity,  as  the  man  was  poor,  and  probably  had 
begged  of  him.  This  at  once  convinced  me  that 
our  dear  Edgar  was  in  the  fatal  boat.  We  have 
made  every  exertion  to  recover  the  body,  but  are 
still  unsuccessful;  nor  can  we  find  that  of  our  poor 
faithful  Samuel.  The  body  of  the  horse  was  seen 
floating  down  the  river  yesterday;  and  the  large 
trunk,  valueless  thing  now,  was  found  but  this  morn- 
ing near  the  stone  fence  on  the  opposite  shore. 

11  '  There  were  some  valuable  parchments,  title 
deeds,  in  a  small  leather  valise,  which  our  dear 
Edgar  carried  himself — but  what  do  we  care  for 
such  things  now,  or  for  the  gold  pieces  which  he 
also  had  in  the  same  case.  Alas!  we  think  of  no- 
thing but  of  the  loss  of  him,  thy  much  varued  brother. 
Edgar  Hastings  has  been  taken  from  us,  and  although 
thy  poor  sister  is  the  greatest  sufferer,  yet  a% 
mourn. 

"  '  Offer  up  thy  prayers,  my  son,  that  God  will 
please  to  spare  thy  sister's  reason ;  if  that  can  be 
preserved,  time  will  soften  this  bitter  grief,  and  some 
little  comfort  will  remain,  for  she  has  Edgar's  boy 
to  nourish  and  protect.  As  to  me,  tranquil  as  I  am 
compelled  to  be  before  her,  I  find  that  my  chief 
pleasure,  my  happiness,  is  for  ever  gone.  Edgar 
was  superior  to  most  men,  ay,  to  any  man  living, 
and  so  excellent  was  he  in  heart,  and  so  virtuous 
and  upright  in  all  his  ways,  that  I  trust  his  pure 
spirit  has  ascended  to  the  Great  Being  who  gave  it. 

"  '  Do  not  come  to  us  just  now,  unless  it  be  ne- 
cessary to  thy  peace  of  mind ;  but  if  thou  shouldst 
come,  ask  not  to  see  thy  sister,  for  the  sight  of  any 
one,  save  me  and  her  child,  is  most  painful  to  her. 

"  '  Kiss  thy  babe,  and  bid  him  not  forget  his 
afflicted  grandfather.  God  bless  thee  and  thy  kind 
wife. — Adieu,  my  son.         Valentine  Harley.'  " 


YEARS  HENCE.  25 

It  need  not  be  said  that  Edgar  Hastings  was 
plunged  in  profound  grief  at  hearing  this °epistle 
read;  his  excellent  father,  his  beloved  wife,  his 
darling  child,  were  brought  before  him,  fresh  as 
when  he  last  saw  them;  and  now  the  withering 
thought  came  over  him  that  he  was  to  see  them  no 
more !  After  a  few  moments  spent  in  bitter  an- 
guish, he  raised  his  head,  and  motioned  the  voung 
man  to  proceed. 

H  Meantime  the  workmen  proceeded  in  their  la- 
bours, and  so  great  was  the  anxiety  of  all,  that  up- 
wards of  fifty  more  hands  were  employed  to  assist 
in  removing  the  thick  layer  of  ice  which  apparently 
covered  the  whole  building.  When  the  ice  was  re- 
moved, we  came  immediately  to  the  crushed  roof 
of  the  house,  into  which  several  of  the  labourers 
would  have  worked  their  way  had  we  not  withheld 
them.  After  placing  the  engines  in  front  they  soon 
cleared  a  road  to  the  entrance,  and  by  sundown 
Valentine  Harley  and  myself  stood  before  the  door- 
way of  the  low  stone  farm  house. 

"  It  was  not  without  great  emotion  that  we  came 
thus  suddenly  in  view  of  a  building  which  had  lain 
under  such  a  mass  of  earth  for  -three  centuries.  We 
arc  both,  I  trust,  men  of  strong  and  tender  feelings, 
and  we  could  not  but  sigh  over  the  disastrous  fate 
of  our  great  ancestor,  distant  as  was  the  period  of 
his  existence.  We  had  often  thought  of  it,  for  it  was 
the  story  of  our  childhood,  and  every  document  had 
been  religiously  preserved.  We  stood  for  a  few 
moments  looking  at  the  entrance  in  silence,  for 
among  other  letters  there  were  two  or  three,  writ- 
ten late  in  life  by  your  faithful  and  excellent  wife — 
was  not  her  name  Ophelia  ?" 

"  It  was,  it  was,"  said  the  afflicted  man  ;  "go  on, 
and  ask  me  no  questions,  for  my  reason  is  un- 
steady." 

"  In  one  of  these  letters  she  suggested  the  possi- 
c2 


26  THREE  HUNDRED 

bility  that  her  beloved  husband  might  have  been 
buried  under  the  ruins  ;  that  the  thought  had  some- 
times struck  her ;  but  her  father  believed  otherwise. 
That  within  a  few  years  an  old  sailor  had  returned 
to  his  native  place,  and  as  it  was  near  Elm  wood, 
he  called  on  her  to  state  that  it  was  his  firm  belief 
that  Mr.  Hastings  did  not  perish  in  the  Black  Hawk. 
His  reason  for  this  belief  was,  that  on  the  way  to 
the  ship  he  encountered  an  old  friend,  just  at  that 
moment  leaving  the  low  stone  building.  '  I  wanted 
him,'  said  the  old  sailor,  '  to  jump  in  the  wagon  and 
go  with  me  to  the  wharf,  but  he  refused,  as  he  had 
business  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Besides, 
said  my  friend,  the  gentleman  within,  pointing  to 
the  door,  has  given  me  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  to  go 
forward  and  tell  the  captain  of  the  Black  Hawrk 
that  he  cannot  cross  this  trip.  This  gentleman,  he 
said,  was  Mr.  Hastings.' 

**  Another  letter  stated — I  think  it  was  written  by 
the  wife  of  James  Harley,  your  brother-in-law — 
that,  in  addition  to  the  above,  the  old  sailor  stated, 
that  the  ship  in  which  he  sailed  had  not  raised  an- 
chor yet,  when  they  heard  the  explosion  of  the 
Black  Hawk,  of  which  fact  they  became  acquainted 
by  means  of  a  little  fishing  boat  that  came  along 
side,  and  which  saw  her  blow  up.  He  observed  to 
some  one  near,  that  if  that  was  the  case,  an  old 
shipmate  of  his  had  lost  his  life.  The  sailor  added 
likewise,  that  he  had  been  beating  about  the  world 
for  many  years,  hut  at  length  growing  tired,  and 
finding  old  age  creeping  on  him,  he  determined  to 
end  his  days  in  his  native  village.  Among  the  re- 
citals of  early  days  was  the  bursting  of  the  Black 
Hawk  and  the  death  of  Mr.  Hastings,  which  latter 
fact  he  contradicted,  stating  his  reasons  for  believ- 
ing that  you  were  not  in  the  boat.  The  idea  of 
your  being  buried  under  the  ruins,  and  the  dread 
that  you    might    have    perished   with    hunger,    so 


YEARS  HENCE-  27 

afflicted  the  poor  Lady  Ophelia  that  she  fell  into  a 
nervous  fever,  of  which  she  died." 

"  Say  no  more— tell  me  nothing  farther,"  said 
the  poor  sufferer ;  "  I  can  listen  no  longer— good 
night — good  night— leave  me  alone." 

The  young  men  renewed  the  fire,  and  were  about 
to  depart,  when  he  called  them  back. 

"Excuse  this  emotion — but  my  son — tell  me  of 
him;  did  he  perish  ?" 

"■  2so — he  lived  to  see  his  great  grandchildren  all 
married :  I  think  he  was  upwards  of  ninety  when 
he  died." 

"And  what  relation  are  you  to  him  ?" 
"I  am  the  great  grandson  of  your  great  grand- 
son," said  Edgar  Hastings  the  younger;  "and  this 
young  man  is  the  eighth  in  descent  from  your  bro- 
ther, James  Harley.  We  both  feel  respect  and 
tenderness  for  you,  and  it  shall  be  the  business  of 
our  lives  to  make  you  forget  your  griefs.  Be  com- 
forted, therefore,  for  we  are  your  children.  In  the 
morning  you  shall  see  my  wile  and  children.  Mean- 
time, as  we  have  not  much  more  to  say,  let  us  finish 
our  account  of  meeting  you,  and  then* we  trust  you 
will  be  able  to  get  a  few  hours'  rest." 

"Rest!"  said  the  man  who  had  slept  three  hun- 
dred years,  "I  think  I  have  had  enough  of  sleep; 
but  proceed." 

"  When  the  thought  struck  us  that  your  bones 
might  lie  under  the  ruins,  we  did  not  wish  any  com- 
mon eye  to  see  them;  we  therefore  dismissed  the 
workmen,  and  entered  the  door  by  ourselves.  We 
came  immediately  into  a  square  hall,  at  the  end  of 
which  was  the  opening  to  what  is  called  in  all  the 
papers  the  middle  room  ;  the  door  had  crumbled 
away.  The  only  light  in  the  room  proceeded  from 
a  hole  which  had  been  recently  made  by  the  re- 
moval of  the  ice  on  the  roof,  but  it  was  sufficient  to 
show  the  contents  of  the  room.    We  saw  the  boxes, 


28  THREE  HUNDRED 

so  often  mentioned  in  all  the  letters,  nine  in  number, 
and  four  large  cases,  which  we  supposed  to  be  in- 
struments. The  table  and  four  chairs  were  in  good 
preservation,  and  on  the  table  lay  the  very  note 
which  you  must  have  written  but  a  few  minutes 
before  the  ice  covered  you.  On  walking  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  the  light  fell  on  the  large 
chair  in  which  you  were  reclining. 

"  '  This  is  the  body  of  our  great  ancestor,'  said 
Valentine  Harley,  '  and  now  that  the  nir  has  been 
admitted  it  will  crumble  to  dust.  Let  us  have  the 
entrance  nailed  up,  and  make  arrangements  for 
giving  the  bones  an  honourable  grave.' 

"  '  Unfortunate  man,'  said  I ;  '  he  must  have  pe- 
rished with  hunger — and  yet  his  flesh  does  not  ap- 
pear to  have  wasted.  It  is  no  doubt  the  first  owner 
of  our  estate,  and  he  was  buried  in  the  fall  of  the  ice 
and  hill.  The  old  sailor  was  right.  His  cap  of  seal- 
skin lies  at  the  back  of  his  head,  his  gloves  are  on  his 
lap,  and  there  is  the  cameo  on  his  little  finger,  the 
very  one  described  in  the  paper  which  offered  that 
large  reward  for  the  recovery  of  his  body.  The  little 
valise  lies  at  his  feet — how  natural — how  like  a 
living  being  he  looks;  one  could  almost  fancy  he 
breathes.' 

"  '  My  fancy  is  playing  the  fool  with  me,'  said 
Valentine  ;  '  he  not  only  appears  to  breathe,  but  he 
moves  his  hand.  If  we  stay  much  longer  our  senses 
will  become  affected,  and  we  shall  imagine  that  he 
can  rise  and  walk.' 

"  We  stepped  back,  therefore,  a  few  paces ;  but 
you  may  imagine  our  surprise,  when  you  opened 
your  eyes  and  made  an  attempt  to  get  up.  At  length 
you  spoke,  and  we  hastened  to  you;  our  humanity 
and  pity,  for  one  so  singularly  circumstanced,  being 
stronger  than  our  fears.  You  know  the  rest.  1 
picked  up  the  valise,  and  there  it  lies." 

We  shall  draw  a  veil  over  the  next  two  months 
of  our  hero's  existence.     His  mind  was  in  distress 


YEARS  HENCE.  29 

and  confusion,  and  he  refused  to  be  comforted  ;  but 
the  young  men  devoted  themselves  to  him,  and  they 
had  their  reward  in  seeing  him  at  length  assume  a 
tranquil  manner — yet  the  sad  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance never  left  him.  His  greatest  pleasure — a 
melancholy  one  it  was,  which  often  made  him  shed 
tears — was  to  caress  the  youngest  child ;  it  was 
about  the  age  of  his  own,  and  he  fancied  he  saw  a 
resemblance.  In  fact,  he  saw  a  strong  likeness  to 
his  wife  in  the  lady  who  now  occupied  Elmwood, 
and  her  name  being  Ophelia  rendered  the  likeness 
more  pleasing.  She  had  been  told  of  the  strange 
relationship  which  existed  between  her  guest  and 
themselves;  but,  at  our  hero's  request,  no  other 
human  being  was  to  know  who  he  was,  save  Ed- 
gar Hastings  the  younger  and  his  wife,  and  Valen- 
tine Harley.  It  was  thought  most  prudent  to  keep 
it  a  secret  from  the  wife  of  the  latter,  as  her  health 
was  exceedingly  delicate,  and  her  husband  feared 
that  the  strangeness  of  the  affair  might  disturb  her 
mind. 

Behold  our  hero,  then,  in  full  health  and  vigour,  at 
the  ripe  age  of  thirty-two,  returning  to  the  earth  af- 
ter an  absence  of  three  hundred  years  !  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  son,  and  his  excellent 
father,  he  surely  was  quite  as  happily  circumstanced, 
as  when,  at  twenty-one,  he  returned  from  Europe, 
unknowing  and  unknown.  He  soon  made  friends 
then,  and  but  for  the  canker  at  his  heart  he  could 
make  friends  again.  He  thought  of  nothing  less  than 
to  appear  before  the  public,  or  of  engaging  in  any 
pursuit.  His  fortune,  and  that  part  of  his  father-in- 
law's  which  naturally  would  have  fallen  to  him,  was 
now  in  the  possession  of  this  remote  descendent.  He 
was  willing  to  let  it  so  remain,  retaining  only  suffi- 
cient for  his  wants ;  and  his  amiable  relation  took 
care  that  his  means  were  ample. 

To  divert  his  mind,  and  keep  him  from  brooding 


30  THREE  HUNDRED 

over  his  sorrows,  his  young  relative  proposed  that 
they  should  travel  through  the  different  states. 
**  Surely,"  said  he,  "  you  must  feel  a  desire  to  see 
what  changes  three  hundred  years  have  made.  Are 
not  the  people  altered  }  Do  those  around  you  talk, 
and  dress,  and  live  as  you  were  accustomed  to  do?" 

"  I  see  a  difference  certainly,"  said  Hastings, 
"  but  less  than  I  should  have  imagined.  But  my 
mind  has  been  in  such  confusion,  and  my  grief  has 
pressed  so  heavily  on  my  heart,  that  I  can  observe 
nothing.  I  will  travel  with  you,  perhaps  it  may  be 
of  service ;  let  us  set  out  on  the  first  of  May.  Shall 
we  go  northward  first,  or  where?" 

"  I  think  we  had  better  go  to  New  York,"  said 
Edgar,  "  and  then  to  Boston ;  we  can  spend  the 
months  of  May,  June  and  July  very  pleasantly  in 
travelling  from  one  watering  place  to  another.  We 
now  go  in  locomotive  cars,  without  either  gas  or 
steam." 

"Is  that  the  way  you  travel  now?"  exclaimed 
Hastings. 

"Yes,  certainly;  how  should  we  travel?  Oh,  I 
recollect,  you  had  balloons  and  air  cars  in  your 
time." 

"  We  had  balloons,  but  they  were  not  used  as 
carriages;  now  and  then  some  adventurous  man 
went  up  in  one,  but  it  was  merely  to  amuse  the  peo- 
ple. Have  you  discovered  the  mode  of  navigating 
balloons?" 

"Oh  yes;  we  guide  them  as  easily  through  the 
air,  as  you  used  to  do  horses  on  land." 

"Do  you  never  use  horses  to  travel  with  now?" 

"No,  never.  It  is  upwards  of  a  hundred  years 
since  horses  were  used  either  for  the  saddle  or  car- 
riage ;  and  full  two  hundred  years  since  they  were 
used  for  ploughing,  or  other  farming  or  domestic 
purposes." 

"  You  astonish  me ;  but  in  field  sports,  or  horse 
racing,  there  you  must  have  horses." 


YEARS  HENCE.  31 

The  young  man  smiled.  "  My  dear  sir,"  said 
he,  "  there  is  no  such  thing  as  field  sports  or  horse 
racing  now.  Those  brutal  pastimes,  thank  heaven, 
have  been  entirely  abandoned.  In  fact,  you  will 
be  surprised  to  learn,  that  the  races  of  horses,  asses 
and  mules  are  almost  extinct.  I  can  assure  you, 
that  they  are  so  great  a  curiosity  now  to  the  rising 
generation,  that  they  are  carried  about  with  wild 
beasts  as  part  of  the  show." 

"Then  there  is  no  travelling  on  horseback  1  I 
think  that  is  a  great  loss,  as  the  exercise  was  very 
healthy  and  pleasant." 

"  Oh,  we  have  a  much  more  agreeable  mode  of 
getting  exercise  now.  Will  you  take  a  ride  on  the 
land  or  a  sail  on  the  water?" 

"  I  think  I  should  feel  a  reluctance  in  getting  into 
one  of  your  new  fashioned  cars.  Do  the  steam- 
boats cross  at  what  was  called  the  Little  Ferry, 
where  the  Black  Hawk  went  from  when  her  boiler 
exploded  ?" 

"  Steamboats  indeed  !  they  have  been  out  of  use 
since  the  year  1950.  But  suspend  your  curiosity 
until  we  commence  our  journey ;  you  will  find 
many  things  altered  for  the  better." 

"  One  thing  surprises  me,"  said  Hastings.  "  You 
wear  the  quaker  dress;  indeed,  it  is  of  that  fashion 
which  the  gravest  of  the  sect  of  my  time  wore ; 
but  you  do  not  use  the  mode  of  speech — is  that 
abolished  among  you?' 

The  young  man,  whom  we  shall  in  future  call 
Edgar,  laughed  out.  "Quaker!"  said  he;  "why, 
my  dear  sir,  the  quakers  have  been  extinct  for  up- 
wards of  two  centuries.  My  dress  is  the  fashion 
of  the  present  moment ;  all  the  young  men  of  my 
age  and  standing  dress  in  this  style  now.  Does  it 
appear  odd  to  you?" 

"No,"  said  Hastings,  "  because  this  precise  dress 
was  worn  by  the  people  called  Friends  or  Quakers, 


32      m  THREE  HUNDRED 

in  my  day — strange  that  I  should  have  to  use  this 
curious  mode  of  speech — my  day !  yes,  like  the  wan- 
dering Jew,  I  seem  to  exist  to  the  end  of  time.  I  see 
one  alteration  or  difference,  however;  you  wear 
heavy  gold  buckles  in  your  shoes,  the  quakers  wore 
strings;  you  have  long  ruffles  on  your  hands,  they 
had  none;  you  wear  a  cocked  hat,  and  they  wore 
one  with  a  large  round  rim." 

"But  the  women — did  they  dress  as  my  wife 
does?" 

"  No. — Your  wife  wears  what  the  old  ladies  be- 
fore my  time  called  a.  frisk  and  petticoat;  it  is  the 
fashion  of  the  year  1780.  Her  hair  is  cropped  and 
curled  closely  to  her  head,  with  small  clusters  of 
curls  in  the  hollow  of  each  temple.  In  1835  the 
hair  was  dressed  in  the  Grecian  style — but  you  can 
see  the  fashion.  You  have  preserved  the  picture 
of  my  dear  Ophelia ;  she  sat  to  two  of  the  best 
painters  of  the  day,  Sully  and  Ingham  ;  the  one  you 
have  was  painted  by  Ingham,  and  is  in  the  gay  dress 
of  the  lime.  The  other,  which  her  brother  had  in 
his  possession,  was  in  a  quaker  dress,  and  was 
painted  by  Sully." 

"  We  have  it  still,  and  it  is  invaluable  for  the 
sweetness  of  expression  and  the  grace  of  attitude. 
The  one  in  your  room  is  admirable  likewise;  it 
abounds  in  beauties.  No  one  since  has  ever  been 
able  to  paint  in  that  style ;  it  bears  examination 
closely.  Was  he  admired  as  an  artist  in  your 
day?" 

"Yes;  he  was  a  distinguished  painter,  but  he 
deserved  his  reputation,  for  he  bestowed  immense 
labour  on  his  portraits,  and  sent  nothing  unfinished 
from  his  hands." 

"  But  portrait  painting  is  quite  out  of  date  now  ; 
it  began  to  decline  about  the  year  1870.  It  was  a 
strange  taste,  that  of  covering  the  walls  with  paint- 
ings, which  your  grandchildren  had  to  burn  up  as 


YEARS  HENCE.  33 

useless  lumber.  Where  character,  beauty  and  grace 
were  combined,  and  a  good  artist  to  embody  them, 
it  was  well  enough ;  a  number  of  these  beautiful 
fancy  pieces  are  still  preserved.  Landscape  and 
historical  painting  is  on  the  decline  also.  There 
are  no  good  artists  now,  but  you  had  a  delightful 
painter  in  your  day — Leslie.  His  pictures  are  still 
considered  as  very  great  treasures,  and  they  bring 
the  very  highest  prices." 

"  How  is  it  with  sculpture?  That  art  was  begin- 
ning to  improve  in  my  day." 

"Yes;  and  has  continued  to  improve.  We  now 
rival  the  proudest  days  of  Greece.  But  you  must 
see  all  these  things.  The  Academy  of  Fine  Arts 
in  Philadelphia  will  delight  you ;  it  is  now  the  largest 
in  the  world.  In  reading  an  old  work  I  find  that 
in  your  time  it  was  contemptible  enough,  for  in  the 
month  of  April  of  1833,  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts 
in  that  city  was  so  much  in  debt,  as  to  be  unable  to 
sustain  itself.  It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
that  the  trustees  could  beg  a  sum  sufficient  to  pay 
the  debts.  The  strong  appeal  that  was  made  to  the 
public  enabled  them  to  continue  it  a  little  longer  in 
its  impoverished  condition,  but  it  seems  that  it 
crumbled  to  pieces,  and  was  not  resuscitated  until 
the  year  1850,  at  which  time  a  taste  for  the  art  of 
sculpture  began  to  appear  in  this  country." 

On  the  first  of  May  the  two  gentlemen  com- 
menced their  tour — not  in  locomotive  engines,  nor 
in  steamboats,  but  in  curious  vehicles  that  moved 
by  some  internal  machinery.  They  were  regu- 
lated every  hour  at  the  different  stopping  places, 
and  could  be  made  to  move  faster  or  slower,  to  suit 
the  pleasure  of  those  within.  The  roads  were  beau- 
tifully smooth  and  perfectly  level;  and  Hastings 
observed  that  there  were  no  dangerous  passes,  for 
a  strong  railing  stretched  along  the  whole  extent 
of  every  elevation.     How  diffeient  from  the  roads 

D 


34  THREE  HUNDRED 

of  1834!  Then  men  were  reckless  or  prodigal  of 
life ;  stages  were  overturned,  or  pitched  down  some 
steep  hill — rail  cars  bounded  off  the  rails,  or  set  the 
vehicles  on  fire — steamboats  exploded  and  destroyed 
many  lives — horses  ran  away  and  broke  their  riders' 
necks — carts,  heavily  laden,  passed  over  children 
and  animals — boats  upset  in  squalls  of  wind — in 
short,  if  human  ingenuity  had  been  exerted  to  its 
fullest  extent,  there  could  not  be  contrivances  bet- 
ter suited  to  shorten  life,  or  render  travelling  more 
unsafe  and  disagreeable. 

Instead  of  going  directly  to  New  York,  as  they 
at  first  contemplated,  they  visited  every  part  of 
Pennsylvania.  Railroads  intersected  one  another 
in  every  direction ;  every  thing  was  a  source  of 
amazement  and  amusement  to  Hastings.  The 
fields  were  no  longer  cultivated  by  the  horse  or  the 
ox,  nor  by  small  steam  engines,  as  was  projected  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  but  by  a  self-moving  plough, 
having  the  same  machinery  to  propel  it  as  that  of 
the  travelling  cars.  Instead  of  rough,  unequal 
grounds,  gullied,  and  with  old  tree  stumps  in  some 
of  the  most  valuable  parts  of  the  field,  the  whole 
was  one  beautiful  level ;  and,  where  inclinations 
were  unavoidable,  there  were  suitable  drains.  The 
same  power  mowed  the  grass,  raked  it  up,  spread 
it  out,  gathered  it,  and  brought  it  to  the  barn — the 
same  power  scattered  seeds,  ploughed,  hoed,  har- 
rowed, cut,  gathered,  threshed,  stored  and  ground 
the  grain — and  the  same  power  distributed  it  to  the 
merchants  and  small  consumers. 

"Wonderful,  most  wonderful,"  said  the  astonish- 
ed Hastings.  "  I  well  remember  this  very  farm ; 
those  fields,  the  soil  of  which  was  washed  away  by 
the  precipitous  fall  of  rain  from  high  parts,  are 
now  all  levelled  smooth.  The  hand  of  time  has 
done  nothing  better  for  the  husbandman  than  in 
perfecting  such  operations  as  these.     Now,  every 


YEARS  HENCE.  35 

inch  of  ground  is  valuable  ;  and  this  very  farm, 
once  only  capable  of  supporting  a  man,  his  wife  and 
five  children  in  the  mere  necessaries  of  life,  must 
now  give  to  four  times  that  number  every  luxury." 

"Yes,  you  are  right;  and  instead  of  requiring 
the  assistance  of  four  labourers,  two  horses  and  two 
oxen,  it  is  all  managed  by  four  men  alone !  The 
machines  have  done  every  thing — they  fill  up  gullies, 
dig  out  the  roots  of  trees,  plough  down  hills,  turn 
water  courses — in  short,  they  have  entirely  super- 
seded the  use  of  cattle  of  any  kind." 

"But  I  see  no  fences,"  said  Hastings;  "  how  is 
this?  In  my  day,  every  man's  estate  was  enclosed 
by  a  fence  or  wall  of  some  kind;  now,  for  bound- 
ary lines  I  see  nothing  but  a  low  hedge,  and  a  move- 
able wire  fence  for  pasturage  for  cows." 

"  Why  should  there  be  the  uncouth  and  expen- 
sive fences,  which  I  find  by  the  old  books  were  in 
use  in  1834,  when  we  have  no  horses;  there  is  no 
fear  of  injury  now  from  their  trespassing.  All  our 
carriages  move  on  rails,  and  cannot  turn  aside  to 
injure  a  neighbouring  grain  field.  Cows,  under  no 
pretence  whatever,  are  allowed  to  roam  at  large; 
and  it  would  be  most  disgraceful  to  the  corporate 
bodies  of  city  or  county  to  allow  hogs  or  sheep  to 
run  loose  in  the  streets  or  on  the  road.  The  rich, 
therefore,  need  no  enclosure  but  for  ornament, 
which,  as  it  embellishes  the  prospect,  is  always 
made  of  some  pleasant  looking  evergreen  or  flow- 
ering shrub.  In  fact,  it  is  now  a  state  affair,  and 
when  a  poor  man  is  unable  to  enclose  the  land  him- 
self, it  is  done  by  money  lawfully  appropriated  to 
the  purpose." 

"  And  dogs — I  see  no  dogs,"  said  Hastings.  In 
my  day  every  farmer  had  one  or  more  dogs;  in 
little  villages  there  were  often  three  and  four  in 
each  house ;  the  cities  were  full  of  them,  notwith- 
standing the  dog  laws — but  I  see  none  now." 


36  THREE  HUNDRED 

"  No — it  is  many  years  since  dogs  were  domes- 
ticated; it  is  a  rarity  to  see  one  now.  Once  in 
awhile  some  odd,  eccentric  old  fellow  will  bring  a 
dog  with  him  from  some  foreign  port,  but  he  dare 
not  let  him  run  loose.  I  presume  that  in  your  time 
hydrophobia  was  common ;  at  least,  on  looking 
over  a  file  of  newspapers  of  the  year  1930,  called 
the  Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Miseries,  I  saw  seve- 
ral accounts  of  that  dreadful  disease.  Men,  women, 
children,  animals,  were  frequently  bitten  by  mad 
dogs  in  those  early  days.  It  is  strange,  that  so  use- 
less an  animal  was  caressed,  and  allowed  to  come 
near  your  persons,  when  the  malady  to  which  they 
were  so  frequently  liable,  and  from  which  there 
was  no  guarding,  no  cure,  could  be  imparted  to  hu- 
man beings." 

"  Well,  what  caused  the  final  expulsion  of  dogs?" 

"  You  will  find  the  whole  account  in  that  old  pa- 
per called  the  Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Miseries ; 
there,  from  time  to  time,  all  the  accidents  that  hap- 
pened to  what  were  called  steamboats,  locomotive 
engines,  stages,  &c.  were  registered.  You  will  see 
that  in  the  year  1860,  during  the  months  of  August 
and  September,  more  than  ten  thousand  dogs  were 
seized  with  that  horrible  disease,  and  that  upward 
of  one  hundred  thousand  people  fell  victims  to  it. 
It  raged  with  the  greatest  fury  in  New  York,  Phi- 
ladelphia, and  Baltimore;  and  but  for  the  timely 
destruction  of  every  dog  in  the  South,  ten  times  the 
number  of  human  beings  would  have  perished. 
The  death  from  hydrophobia  is  as  disgraceful  to  a 
corporate  body,  as  if  the  inhabitants  had  died  of 
thirst,  when  good  water  was  near  them." 

"  This  was  horrible ;  the  consternation  of  the 
people  must  have  been  very  great — equal  to  what 
was  felt  during  the  cholera.  Did  you  ever  read  of 
that  terrible  disease?" 

"  No,  I  do  not  recollect  it Oh,  yes,  now  I  re- 


YEARS  HENCE.  37 

member  to  have  read  something  of  it — but  that  came 
in  a  shape  that  was  not  easy  to  foresee.  But  dogs 
were  always  known  to  be  subject  to  this  awful  dis- 
ease, and  therefore  encouraging  their  increase  was 
shameful.  Posterity  had  cause  enough  to  curse  the 
memory  of  their  ancestors,  for  having  entailed  such 
a  dreadful  scourge  upon  them.  The  panic,  it  seems, 
was  so  great,  that  to  this  day  children  are  more 
afraid  of  looking  at  a  dog,  for  they  are  kept  among 
wild  beasts  as  a  curiosity,  than  at  a  Bengal  tiger." 

"I  confess  I  never  could  discover  in  what  their 
usefulness  consisted.  They  were  capable  of  feeling 
a  strong  attachment  to  their  master,  and  had  a  show 
of  reason  and  intelligence,  but  it  amounted  to  verv 
little  in  its  effects.  It  was  very  singular,  but  I  used 
frequently  to  observe,  that  men  were  oftentimes 
more  gentle  and  kind  to  their  dogs  than  to  their 
wives  and  children  ;  and  much  better  citizens  would 
these  children  have  made,  if  their  fathers  had  be- 
stowed half  the  pains  in  breaking  them  in,  and  in 
training  them,  that  they  did  on  their  dogs.  It  was  a 
very  rare  circumstance  if  a  theft  was  prevented  by 
the  presence  of  a  dog ;  when  such  a  thing  did  oc- 
cur, every  paper  spoke  of  it,  and  the  anecdote  was 
never  forgotten.  But  had  they  been  ever  so  useful, 
so  necessary  to  man's  comfort,  nothing  could  com- 
pensate or  overbalance  the  evil  to  which  he  was 
liable  from  this  disease.  Were  the  dogs  all  de- 
stroyed at  once?" 

"  Yes;  the  papers  say,  that  by  the  first  of  October 
there  was  but  one  dog  to  be  seen,  and  the  owner  of* 
that  had  to  pay  a  fine  of  three  thousand  dollars,  and 
be  imprisoned  for  one  year  at  hard  labour.  When 
you  consider  the  horrible  sufferings  of  so  many 
people,  and  all  to  gratify  a  pernicious  as  well  as 
foolish  fondness  for  an  animal,  we  cannot  wonder 
at  the  severity  of  the  punishment." 

"  I  verv  well  remember  how  frequently*  I  was 
d  2 


38  THREE  HUNDRED 

annoyed  by  dogs  when  riding  along  the  road.  A 
yelping  cur  has  followed  at  my  horse's  heels  lor  five 
or  six  minutes,  cunningly  keeping  beyond  the  reach 
of  my  whip — some  dogs  do  this  all  their  lives. 
Have  the  shepherd's  dogs  perished  likewise — all, 
did  you  say?" 

"  Yes ;  every  dog — pointers,  setters,  hounds — all 
were  exterminated ;  and  I  sincerely  hope  that  the 
breed  will  never  be  encouraged  again.  In  fact,  the 
laws  are  so  severe  that  there  is  no  fear  of  it,  for  no 
man  can  bring  them  in  the  country  without  incur- 
ring a  heavy  line,  and  in  particular  cases  imprison- 
ment at  hard  labour.  We  should  as  soon  expect  to 
see  a  wolf  or  a  tiger  running  loose  in  the  streets  as 
a  dog." 

Every  step  they  took  excited  fresh  remarks  from 
Hastings,  and  his  mind  naturally  turned  to  the 
friends  he  had  lost.  How  perfect  would  have  been 
his  happiness  if  it  had  been  permitted  that  his  wife 
and  his  father  could  be  with  him  to  see  the  improved 
state  of  the  country.  When  he  looked  forward  to 
what  his  life  might  be — unknown,  alone — he  re- 
gretted that  he  had  been  awakened:  but  his  kind 
relative,  who  never  left  him  for  a  moment,  as  soon 
as  these  melancholy  reveries  came  over  him  hur- 
ried him  to  some  new  scene. 

They  were  now  in  Philadelphia,  the  Athens  of 
America,  as  it  was  called  three  centuries  back. 
Great  changes  had  taken  place  here.  Very  few 
of  the  public  edifices  had  escaped  the  all-devouring 
hand  of  time.  In  fact,  Hastings  recognised  but 
five — that  beautiful  building  called  originally  the 
United  States  Bank,  the  Mint,  the  Asylum  for  the 
Deaf  and  Dumb,  and  the  Girard  College.  The 
latter  continued  to  flourish,  notwithstanding  its 
downfall  was  early  predicted,  in  consequence  of  the 
prohibition  of  clergymen  in  the  direction  of  its  af- 
fairs.   The  dispute,  too,  about  the  true  signification 


YEARS  HENCE.  39 

of  the  term  ''orphan"  had  been  settled;  it  was  at 
length,  after  a  term  of  years,  twenty,  I  think,  de- 
cided, that  the  true  meaning  and  intent  of  Stephen 
Girard,  the  wise  founder  of  the  institution,  was  to 
make  it  a  charity  for  those  children  who  had  lost 
both  parents. 

"  I  should  not  think,"  said  Hastings,  on  hearing 
this  from  Edgar,  "  that  any  one  could  fancy,  for  a 
moment,  that  Girard  meant  any  thing  else." 

'•  Why  no,  neither  you  nor  I,  nor  ninety-nine  out 
of  a  hundred,  would  decide  otherwise  ;  but  it  seems 
a  question  was  raised,  and  all  the  books  of  refer- 
ence were  appealed  to,  as  well  as  the  poets.  In 
almost  every  case,  an  orphan  was  said  to  be  a  child 
deprived  of  one  or  both  parents  ;  and,  what  is  very 
singular,  the  term  orphan  occurs  but  once  through- 
out the  Old  and  New  Testaments.  In  Lamentations 
it  says,  '  We  arc  orphans,  and  fatherless,  and  our 
mothers  are  as  widows.'  Now,  in  the  opinion  ot 
many,  the  orphan  and  fatherless,  and  those  whose 
mothers  are  as  widows,  here  mentioned,  are  three 
distinct  sets  of  children — that  is,  as  the  lament  says, 
some  of  us  are  orphans,  meaning  children  without 
father  and  mother,  some  of  us  are  fatherless;  and 
the  third  set  says,  '  our  mothers  arc  as  widows.' 
This  means,  that  in  consequence  of  their  fathers' 
absence,  their  mothers  were  as  desolate  and  help- 
less as  if  in  reality  they  were  widows  by  the  death 
of  their  husbands.  This  text,  therefore,  settles  no- 
thing. Girard,  like  all  the  unlettered  men  of  the 
age,  by  the  term  orphan,  understood  it  to  mean  a 
child  without  parents." 

"  I  very  well  remember,"  said  Hastings,  "  that 
on  another  occasion  when  the  term  came  in  ques- 
tion, I  asked  every  man  and  woman  that  worked  on 
and  lived  near  the  great  canal,  what  they  meant  by 
orphan,  and  they  invariably,  without  a  single  ex- 
ception, said  it  meant  a  child  without  parents." 


40  THREE  HUNDRED 

"  Well,  the  good  sense  of  the  trustees,  at  the  end 
of  the  time  I  mentioned,  decided  after  the  manner 
of  the  multitude — for  it  was  from  this  mass  that  their 
objects  of  charity  were  taken.  And  there  is  no  in- 
stance on  the  records,  of  a  widow  begging  admit- 
tance for  her  fatherless  boys.  They  knew  very 
well  what  being  an  orphan  meant,  but  to  their  praise 
be  it  said,  [{fatherless  children  had  been  included 
in  the  term,  there  were  very  few  who  would  not 
have  struggled  as  long  as  it  was  in  their  power,  be- 
fore their  boys  should  be  taken  to  a  charitable  insti- 
tution." 

"I  recollect,  too,"  said  Hastings,  "that  great 
umbrage  was  taken  by  many  persons  because  the 
clergy  were  debarred  from  any  interference  in  the 
management  of  the  college.  No  evil,  you  say,  has 
arisen  from  this  prohibition  ?" 

"  None  at  all,"  replied  Edgar.  M  The  clergy  were 
not  offended  by  it ;  they  found  they  had  enough  to 
do  with  church  affairs.  It  has  been  ever  since  in 
the  hands  of  a  succession  of  wise,  humane,  and 
honest  men.  The  funds  have  gone  on  increasing, 
and  as  they  became  more  than  sufficient  for  the 
purposes  of  the  college,  the  overplus  has  been  law- 
fully spent  in  improving  the  city." 

"  In  the  year  1805 — alas,  it  seems  to  me  that  but 
a  few  days  ago  I  existed  at  that  period — was  there 
not  an  Orphan  Asylum  here!" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  sir,  the  old  books  speak  of  a 
small  establishment  of  that  kind,  founded  by  several 
sensible  and  benevolent  women  ;  but  it  was  attend- 
ed with  very  great  personal  sacrifices — for  there 
was  in  that  century  a  very  singular,  and,  we  must 
say,  disgusting  practice  among  all  classes,  to  obtain 
money  for  the  establishment  of  any  charitable,  be- 
nevolent, or  literary  institution.  Both  men  and  wo- 
men— women  for  the  most  part,  because  men  used 
then  to  shove  oil*  from  themselves  all  that  was  irk- 


YEARS  HENCE.  41 

some  or  disagreeable — women,  I  say,  used  to  go 
from  door  to  door,  and  in  the  most  humble  manner 
beg  a  few  dollars  from  each  individual.  Sometimes, 
the  Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Miseries  says,  that 
men  and  women  of  coarse  minds  and  mean  educa- 
tion were  in  the  habit  of  insulting  the  committee 
who  thus  turned  beggars.  They  did  not  make  their 
refusal  in  decent  terms  even,  but  added  insult  to  it. 
In  the  course  of  time  the  Recorder  goes  on  to  say, 
men  felt  ashamed  of  all  this,  and  their  first  step  was 
to  relieve  women  from  the  drudgery  and  disgrace 
of  begging.  After  that,  but  it  was  by  degrees,  the 
different  corporate  bodies  of  each  state  took  the 
matter  up,  and  finally  every  state  had  its  own  hu- 
mane and  charitable  institutions,  so  that  there  are 
now  no  longer  any  private  ones,  excepting  such  as 
men  volunteer  to  maintain  with  their  own  money." 

"  Did  the  old  Orphan  Asylum  of  Philadelphia,  be- 
gun by  private  individuals,  merge  into  the  one  now 
established?" 

"  No,"  replied  Edgar ;  "  the  original  asylum 
only  existed  a  certain  number  of  years,  for  people 
got  tired  of  keeping  up  a  charity  by  funds  gathered 
in  this  loose  way.  At  length,  another  man  of  im- 
mense wealth  died,  and  bequeathed  all  his  property 
to  the  erection  and  support  of  a  college  for  orphan 
girls — and  this  time  the  world  was  not  in  doubt  as 
to  the  testator's  meaning.  From  this  moment  a  new 
era  took  place  with  regard  to  women,  and  we  owe 
the  improved  condition  of  our  people  entirely  to  the 
improvement  in  the  education  of  the  female  poor; 
blessed  be  the  name  of  that  man." 

"  Well,  from  time  to  time  you  must  tell  me  the 
rise  and  progress  of  all  these  things;  at  present  I 
must  try  and  find  my  way  in  this  now  truly  beau- 
tiful city.  This  is  Market  street,  but  so  altered  that 
1  should  scarcely  know  it." 

"  Yes,  I  presume  that  three  hundred  years  would 


42  THREE  HUNDRED 

improve  the  markets  likewise.     But  wherein  is  it 
altered  ?"  • 

"  In  my  day  the  market  was  of  one  story*  or  ra- 
ther had  a  roof  supported  by  brick  pillars,  with  a 
neat  stone  pavement  running  the  whole  length  of 
the  building.  Market  women  not  only  sat  under 
each  arch  and  outside  of  the  pillars,  but  likewise  in 
the  open  spaces  where  the  streets  intersected  the 
market.  Butchers  and  fish  sellers  had  their  appro- 
priate stalls;  and  clerks  of  the  market,  as  they  were 
called,  took  care  that  no  imposition  was  practised. 
Besides  this,  the  women  used  to  bawl  through  the 
streets,  and  carry  their  fish  and  vegetables  on  their 
heads." 

"  All  that  sounds  very  well ;  but  our  old  friend, 
the  Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Miseries,  mentions 
this  very  market  as  a  detestable  nuisance,  and  the 
manner  of  selling  things  through  the  streets  shame- 
ful. Come  with  me,  and  let  us  see  wherein  this  is 
superior  to  the  one  you  describe." 

The  two  friends  entered  the  range  above  at  the 
Schuylkill,  for  to  that  point  had  the  famous  Phila- 
delphia market  reached.  The  building  was  of  two 
stories,  built  of  hewn  stone,  and  entirely  fire-proof, 
as  there  was  not  a  particle  of  wood-work  or  other 
ignitable  matter  in  it.  The  upper  story  was  appro- 
priated to  wooden,  tin,  basket,  crockery,  and  other 
domestic  wares,  such  as  stockings,  gloves,  seeds, 
and  garden  utensils,  all  neatly  arranged  and  kept 
perpetually  clean.  On  the  ground  floor,  in  cool 
niches,  under  which  ran  a  stream  of  cold,  clear 
water,  were  all  the  variety  of  vegetables ;  and  there, 
at  this  early  season,  were  strawberries  and  green 
peas,  all  of  which  were  raised  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  finest  of  the  strawberries  were  those  that  three 
centuries  before  went  by  the  name,  as  it  now  did, 
of  the  dark  hautbois,  rich  in  flavour  and  delicate  in 
perfume.    Women,  dressed  in  close  caps  and  snow 


YEARS  HENCE.  43 

white  aprons,  stood  or  sat  modestly  by  their  bask- 
ets— not,  as  formerly,  bawling  out  to  the  passers-by 
and  entreating  them  to  purchase  of  them,  but  wait- 
ing for  their  turn  with  patience  and  good  humour. 
Their  hair  was  all  hidden,  save  a  few  plain  braids 
or  plaits  in  front,  and  their  neck  was  entirely  co- 
vered. Their  dress  was  appropriate  to  their  con- 
dition, and  their  bearing  had  both  dignity  and 
grace. 

"Well,  this  surpasses  belief,"  said  Hastings. 
"  Are  these  the  descendants  of  that  coarse,  vulgar, 
noisy,  ill  dressed  tribe,  one  half  of  whom  appeared 
before  their  dirty  baskets  and  crazy  fixtures  with 
tawdry  finery,  and  the  other  half  in  sluttish,  uncouth 
clothes,  with  their  hair  hanging  about  their  face,  or 
stuck  up  behind  writh  a  greasy  horn  comb?  What 
has  done  all  this?" 

"  Why,  the  improvement  which  took  place  in  the 
education  of  women.  While  women  were  degraded 
as  they  were  in  your  time" 

"  In  my  time,  my  dear  Edgar,"  said  Hastings, 
quickly — "  in  my  time  !  I  can  tell  you  that  women 
were  not  in  a  degraded  state  then.  Go  back  to  the 
days  of  Elizabeth,  if  you  please ;  but  I  assure  you 
that  in  1835  women  enjoyed  perfect  equality  of 
rights." 

"  Did  they  !  then  our  old  friend,  the  Recorder  of 
Self-inflicted  Miseries,  has  been  imposing  on  us — 
but  we  will  discuss  this  theme  more  at  our  leisure. 
Let  us  ask  that  neat  pretty  young  woman  for  some 
strawberries  and  cream." 

They  were  ripe  and  delicious,  and  Hastings  found, 
that  however  much  all  other  things  had  changed, 
the  fine  perfume,  the  grateful  flavour,  the  rich  con- 
sistency of  the  fruit  and  cream  were  the  same — 
nature  never  changes. 

There  were  no  unpleasant  sights — no  rotten 
vegetables  or  leaves,  no  mud,  no  spitting,  no in 


44  THREE  HUNDRED 

short,  the  whole  looked  like  a  painting,  and  the  wo- 
men all  seemed  as  if  they  were  dressed  for  the  pur- 
pose of  sitting  for  their  portraits,  to  let  ether  times 
have  a  peep  at  what  was  going  on  in  a  former 
world. 

"  If  I  am  in  my  senses,"  said  Hastings,  "which 
I  very  much  doubt,  this  is  the  most  pleasing  change 
which  time  has  wrought ;  I  cannot  but  believe  that 
I  shall  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  find  this  all  a 
dream.     This  is  no  market — it  is  a  picture." 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Edgar.  "  Come,  let  us  pro- 
ceed to  the  butchers'  market." 

So  they  walked  on,  and  still  the  rippling  stream 
followed  them ;  and  here  no  sights  of  blood,  or 
stained  hands,  or  greasy  knives,  or  slaughter-house 
smells,  were  present.  The  meats  were  not  hung 
up  to  view  in  the  open  air,  as  in  times  of  old;  but 
you  had  only  to  ask  for  a  particular  joint,  and  to! 
a  small  door,  two  feet  square,  opened  in  the  wall, 
and  there  hung  the  identical  part. 
•  "  This  gentleman  is  a  stranger,"  said  Edgar,  to 
a  neatly  dressed  man,  having  on  a  snow  white 
apron;  "show  him  a  hind  quarter  of  veal;  we  do 
not  want  to  buy  any,  but  merely  to  look  at  what 
you  have  to  sell." 

The  litde  door  opened,  and  there  hung  one  of  the 
fattest  and  finest  quarters  Hastings  had  ever  seen. 
"  And  the  price,"  asked  he. 
"  It  is  four  cents  a  pound,"  replied  the  man. 
A  purchaser  soon  came ;  the  meat  was  weighed 
within ;  the  man  received  the  money,  and  gave  a 
ticket  with  the  weight  written  on  it ;  the  servant 
departed,  and  the  two  friends  moved  on. 

"  Our  regulations  are  excellent,"  said  Edgar ; 
"  formerly,  as  the  old  Recorder  of  Self-inflicted 
Miseries  says,  the  butchers  weighed  their  meats  in 
the  most  careless  manner,  and  many  a  man  went 
home  with  a  suspicion  that  he  was  cheated  of  half 


YEARS  HENCE.  45 

or  three  quarters  of  a  pound.  Now,  nothing  of 
this  kind  can  take  place,  for  the  clerks  of  the  mar- 
ket stand  at  every  corner.  See !  those  men  use 
the  graduated  balance ;  the  meat  is  laid,  basket  and 
all,  on  that  little  table  ;  the  pressure  acts  on  a  wheel 
— a  clicking  is  heard — it  strikes  the  number  of 
pounds  and  quarters,  and  thus  the  weight  is  ascer- 
tained. The  basket  you  saw,  all  those  you  now  see 
in  the  meat  market,  are  of  equal  weight,  and  they 
are  marked  1,  2,  3,  4  or  more  pounds,  as  the  size 
may  be.  Do  you  not  see  how  much  of  labour  and 
confusion  this  saves.  I  suppose,  in  your  day,  you 
would  have  scorned  to  legislate  on  such  trifling 
objects;  but  I  assure  you  we  find  our  account 
in  it." 

"  I  must  confess  that  this  simplifies  things  won- 
derfully; but  the  cleanliness,  order  and  cheerful- 
ness that  are  seen  throughout  this  market — these 
are  things  worthy  of  legislation.  I  suppose  all  this 
took  place  gradually  V 

"  Yes,  I  presume  so ;  but  it  had  arrived  to  this 
point  before  my  time  ;  the  water  which  flows  under 
and  through  the  market  was  conveyed  there  up- 
ward of  a  century  ago.  But  here  is  beef,  mutton, 
all  kinds  of  meat— and  this  is  the  poultry  market — 
all  sold  by  weight,  as  it  should  be ;  and  here  is  the  fish 
market — see  what  large  marble  basins ;  each  fish- 
monger has  one  of  his  own,  so  that  all  kinds  are 
separate ;  and  see  how  dexterously  they  scoop  up 
the  very  fish  that  a  customer  wants." 

"  What  is  this  V  said  Hastings,  looking  through 
one  of  the  arches  of  the  fish  market ;  "  can  this  be 
the  Delaware  V* 

"  Yes,"  replied  Edgar ;  "  the  market  on  which  we 
are  now,  is  over  the  Delaware.  Look  over  this 
railing,  we  are  on  a  wide  bridge — but  let  us  pro- 
ceed to  the  extremity ;  this  bridge  extends  to  the 

E 


46 


THREE  HUNDRED 


Jersey  shore,  and  thus  connects  the  two  large  cities 
Philadelphia  and  Camden." 

"  In  my  day,  it  was  in  contemplation  to  build  a 
bridge  over  the  Delaware ;  but  there  was  great  op- 
position to  it,  as  in  that  case  there  would  be  a  very 
great  delay,  if  not  hinderance,  to  the  free  passage  of 
ships." 

New  wonders  sprung  up  at  every  step — vessels, 
light  as  gossamer,  of  curious  construction,  were 
passing  and  repassing  under  the  arches  of  the  bridge, 
some  of  three  and  four  hundred  tons  burden,  others 
for  the  convenience  of  market  people,  and  many  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  idle.  While  yet  they  looked,  a 
beautiful  vessel  hove  in  sight,  and  in  a  moment  she 
moved  gracefully  and  swiftly  under  the  arches,  and 
by  the  time  that  Hastings  had  crossed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  bridge  she  was  fastened  to  the  pier. 

"Is  this  a  steamboat  from  Baltimore V  said 
Hastings.  "  Yet  it  cannot  be,  for  I  see  neither 
steam  nor  smoke." 

"  Steamboat !"  answered  his  companion — "  don't 
speak  so  loud,  the  people  will  think  you  crazy. 
Why,  steamboats  have  been  out  of  date  for  more 
than  two  hundred  years.  I  forget  the  name  of  the 
one  who  introduced  them  into  our  waters,  but  they 
did  not  continue  in  use  more  than  fifty  years,  per- 
haps not  so  long;  but  so  many  accidents  occurred 
through  the  extreme  carelessness,  ignorance  and 
avarice  of  many  who  were  engaged  in  them,  that  a 
very  great  prejudice  existed  against  their  use.  No 
laws  were  found  sufficiently  strong  to  prevent  fre- 
quent occurrences  of  the  bursting  of  the  boilers, 
notwithstanding  that  sometimes  as  many  as  nine  or 
ten  lives  were  destroyed  by  the  explosion,  That 
those  accidents  were  not  the  consequence  of  using 
steam  powTer — I  mean  a  necessary  consequence — 
all  sensible  men  knew ;  for  on  this  river,  the  Dela- 
ware, the  bursting  of  the  boiler  of  a  steam  engine 


VEARS  HENCE.  47 

was  never  known,  nor  did  such  dreadful  accidents 
ever  occur  in  Europe.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  after 
one  of  the  most  awful  catastrophes  that  ever  took 
place,  the  bursting  of  a  boiler  which  scalded  to 
death  forty-one  members  of  Congress,  (on  their  way 
home,)  besides  upwards  of  thirty  women  and  chil- 
dren, and  nine  of  the  crew,  the  people  of  this  coun- 
try began  to  arouse  themselves,  and  very  severe 
laws  were  enacted.  Before,  however,  any  farther 
loss  of  lives  occurred,  a  stop  was  put  to  the  use  of 
steamboats  altogether.  The  dreadful  accident  of 
which  I  spoke  occurred  in  the  year  1850,  and  in 
that  eventful  year  a  new  power  was  brought  into 
use,  by  which  steamboats  were  laid  aside  for  ever." 

"  What  is  the  new  principle,  and  who  first  brought 
it  to  light?" 

"  Why,  a  lady.  The  world  owes  this  blessed  in- 
vention to  a  female!  I  will  take  you  into  one  of 
our  small  boats  presently,  where  you  can  handle 
the  machinery  yourself.  No  steam,  nor  heat,  nor 
animal  power — but  one  of  sufficient  energy  to  move 
the  largest  ship." 

"Condensed  air,  is  it? — that  was  tried  in  my 
time." 

"No,  nor  condensed  air;  that  was  almost  as 
dangerous  a  power  as  steam;  for  the  bursting  of 
an  air  vessel  was  always  destructive  of  life.  The 
Recorder  of  Self-Inflicted  Miseries  mentions  seve- 
ral instances  of  loss  of  life  by  the  bursting  of  one  of 
the  air  machines  used  by  the  manufacturers  of 
mineral  waters.  If  that  lady  had  lived  in  this  cen- 
tury, her  memory  would  be  honoured  and  cherished ; 
but  if  no  memorial  was  erected  by  the  English  to 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  a  reproach  could 
not  rest  upon  us  for  not  having  paid  suitable  honours 
to  the  American  lady." 

"Why,  what  did  lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 
do?"  said  Hastings;  "  I  recollect  nothing  but  that 


48  THREE  HUNDRED 

she  wrote  several  volumes  of  very  agreeable  letters 
— Oh,  yes,  how  could  I  forget — the  small-pox  ! 
Yes,  indeed,  she  did  deserve  to  have  a  monument; 
but  surely  the  English  erected  one  to  her  memory?" 

"Did  they? — yes — that  old  defamer  of  women, 
Horace  Walpole,  took  good  care  to  keep  the  pub- 
lic feeling  from  flowing  in  the  right  channel.  He 
made  people  laugh  at  her  dirty  hands  and  painted 
cheeks,  but  he  never  urged  them  to  heap  honours 
on  her  head  for  introducing  into  England  the  prac- 
tice of  innoculation  for  the  small-pox.  If  this  Ame- 
rican lady  deserved  the  thanks  and  gratitude  of  her 
country  for  thus,  for  ever,  preventing  the  loss  of 
lives  from  steam,  and  I  may  say,  too,  from  ship- 
wreck— still  farther  was  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon- 
tagu entitled  to  distinction,  for  the  very  great  bene- 
fit she  bestowed  on  England.  She  saved  thousands 
of  lives,  and  prevented,  what  sometimes  amounted 
to  hideous  deformity,  deeply  scarred  faces,  from 
being  universal. — Yes,  the  benefit  was  incalculable 
and  beyond  price — quite  equal,  I  think,  to  that  which 
the  world  owes  to  Dr.  Jenner,  who  introduced  a 
new  form  of  small-pox,  or  rather  the  small-pox  pure 
and  unadulterated  by  any  affinitive  virus.  This 
modified  the  disease  to  such  a  degree,  that  the 
small-pox,  in  its  mixed  and  complicated  state,  almost 
disappeared.  The  Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Mise- 
ries states,  that  after  a  time  a  new  variety  of  the 
small-pox  made  its  appearance,  which  was  called 
varioloid;  but  it  was  quite  under  the  control  of  me- 
dical skill." 

"Well,  you  live  in  an  age  so  much  in  advance  of 
mine,  and  so  many  facts  and  curious  phenomena 
came  to  light  during  the  nineteenth  century,  that 
you  can  tell  me  what  the  settled  opinion  is  now  re- 
specting small-pox,  kine-pox,  and  varioloid." 

"The  settled  opinion  now  is,  that  they  are  one 
and  the  same  disease.    Thus — the  original  disease, 


YEARS  HENCE.  49 

transferable  from  an  ulcer  of  the  cow's  udder  to 
the  broken  skin  of  a  human  being,  produced  what 
is  called  the  kine  or  cow-pox.  This  virus  of  the 
kine-pox,  in  its  original  state,  was  only  capable  of 
being  communicated  by  contact,  and  only  when  the 
skin  was  broken  or  cut;  but,  when  combined  with 
the  other  poison,  infected  the  system  by  means  of 
breathing  in  the  same  atmosphere.  The  poison 
from  the  ulcer  called  cow-pox  was  never  commu- 
nicated to  or  by  the  lungs,  neither  was  the  poison 
which  had  so  strong  an  affinity  for  it  communicated 
in  that  way ;  but  when  the  two  poisons  united,  and 
met  in  the  same  system,  a  third  poison  was  gene- 
rated, and  the  small-pox  was  the  result.  But  here 
we  are  discussing  a  deep  subject  in  this  busy  place 
— what  gave  rise  to  it? — oh,  steamboats,  the  new 
power  now  used,  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  and  Dr. 
Jenner." 

"I  presume,"  said  the  attentive  Hastings,  "  that 
Dr.  Jenner  fared  no  better  than  your  American 
lady  and  Lady  Mary  Wortley." 

"You  are  much  mistaken,"  said  Edgar.  "Dr. 
Jenner  was  a  man,  which  in  your  day  was  a  very 
different  circumstance.  I  verily  believe  if  it  had 
been  a  woman  who  brought  that  happy  event  about, 
although  the  whole  world  would  have  availed  itself 
of  the  discovery,  her  name  would  scarcely  be  known 
at  this  day." 

Hastings  laughed  at  his  friend's  angry  defence  of 
women's  rights,  but  he  could  not  help  acknowledg- 
ing the  truth  of  what  was  said — there  was  always 
a  great  unwillingness  in  men  to  admit  the  claims  of 
women.  But  it  was  not  a  time,  nor  was  this  the 
place,  to  discuss  so  important  a  subject;  he  intend- 
ed, however,  to  resume  it  the  first  leisure  moment. 
He  turned  his  eye  to  the  river,  and  saw  vessels  in- 
numerable coming  and  going;  and  on  the  arrival 
of  one  a  little  larger  than  that  which  he  first  saw, 
e  2 


50  THREE  HUNDRED 

the  crowd  pressed  forward  to  get  on  board  as  soon 
as  she  should  land. 

"  Where  is  that  vessel  from  ?"  said  Hastings ; 
"  she  looks  more  -weather-beaten  than  the  rest — she 
has  been  at  sen." 

"Yes;  that  is  one  of  our  Indiamen.  Let  us  go 
to  her,  1  see  a  friend  of  mine  on  board — he  went 
out  as  supercargo." 

They  went  on  board  of  the  Indiaman,  and  although 
it  had  encountered  several  storms,  and  had  met  with 
several  accidents,  yet  the  crew  was  all  well  and  the 
cargo  safe.  The  vessel  was  propelled  by  the  same 
machinery — there  was  neither  masts  nor  sails  ! 

"  How  many  months  have  they  been  on  their  re- 
turn?" said  Hastings. 

"  Hush  !"  said  his  friend  Edgar ;  "  do  not  let  any 
one  hear  )^ou.  Why,  this  passage  has  been  a  very 
tedious  one,  and  yet  it  has  only  occupied  four 
weeks.     In  general  twenty  days  are  sufficient." 

"  Well,"  said  Hastings,  "  after  this  I  shall  not  be 
surprised  at  any  thing.  Why,  in  my  time  we  con- 
sidered it  as  a  very  agreeable  thing  if  we  made  a 
voyage  to  England  in  that  time.  Have  you  many 
India  ships?" 

"Yes;  the  trade  has  been  opened  to  the  very 
walls  of  China:  the  number  of  our  vessels  has 
greatly  increased.  But  you  will  be  astonished  to 
hear  that  the  emperor  of  China  gets  his  porcelain 
from  France." 

"  No,  I  am  not,  now  that  I  hear  foreigners  have 
access  to  that  mysterious  city,  for  I  never  consi- 
dered the  Indian  china  as  at  all  equal  to  the  French, 
either  in  texture  or  workmanship.  But  I  presume 
I  have  wonders  to  learn  about  the  Chinese?" 

"  Yes,  much  more  than  you  imagine.  It  is  not 
more  than  a  century  since  the  change  in  their  sys- 
tem has  been  effected  ;  before  that,  no  foreigner 
was  allowed  to  enter  their  gates.    But  quarrels  and 


YEARS  HENCE.  51 

dissensions  among  themselves  effected  what  neither 
external  violence  nor  manoeuvring  could  do.  The 
consequence  of  this  intercourse  with  foreign  nations 
is,  that  the  feet  of  their  women  are  allowed  to  grow, 
and  they  dress  now  in  the  European  style.  They 
import  their  fashions  from  France;  and  I  see  by 
the  papers  that  the  emperor's  second  son  intends  to 
pay  this  country  a  visit.  They  have  English  and 
French,  as  well  as  German  and  Spanish  schools ; 
and  a  great  improvement  in  the  condition  of  the 
lower  classes  of  the  Chinese  has  taken  place ;  but 
it  was  first  by  humanizing  the  women  that  these 
great  changes  were  effected.  Their  form  of  gov- 
ernment is  fast  approaching  that  of  ours,  but  they 
held  out  long  and  obstinately." 

"  Their  climate  is  very  much  against  them,"  ob- 
served Hastings;  "mental  culture  must  proceed 
slowly,  where  the  heat  is  so  constant  and  exces- 
sive." 

"  Yes  ;  but,  my  dear  sir,  you  must  recollect  that 
they  have  ice  in  abundance  now.  We  carry  on  a 
great  trade  in  that  article.  In  fact,  some  of  our 
richest  men  owe  their  wealth  to  the  exportation  of 
this  luxury  alone.  Boston  set  the  example — she 
first  sent  cargoes  of  ice  to  China ;  but  it  was  not 
until  our  fast  sailing  vessels  were  invented  that  the 
thing  could  be  accomplished." 

"I  should  think  it  almost  impossible  to  transport 
ice  to  such  a  distance,  even  were  the  time  lessened 
to  a  month  or  six  weeks,  as  it  now  is." 

"  You  must  recollect,  that  half  of  this  difficulty 
of  transporting  ice  was  lessened  by  the  knowledge 
that  was  obtained,  even  in  your  day,  of  saving  ice. 
According  to  the  Recorder,  who  sneered  at  the 
times  for  remaining  so  long  ignorant  of  the  fact,  ice 
houses  could  be  built  above  ground,  with  the  cer- 
tainty that  they  would  preserve  ice.  It  was  the 
expense  of  building  those  deep  ice  houses  which 


o'Z  THREE  HUNDRED 

prevented  the  poor  from  enjoying  this  luxury — 
nay,  necessary  article.  Now,  every  landlord  builds 
a  stack  of  ice  in  the  yard,  and  thatches  it  well  with 
oat  straw ;  and  the  corporation  have  an  immense 
number  of  these  stacks  of  ice  distributed  about  the 
several  wards." 

"  I  have  awakened  in  delightful  times,  my  friend. 
Oh,  that  my  family  could  have  been  with  me  when 
I  was  buried  under  the  mountain." 

Young  Hastings,  seeing  the  melancholy  which 
was  creeping  over  the  unfortunate  man,  hurried 
him  away  from  the  wharf,  and  hastened  to  Chest- 
nut street.  Our  hero  looked  anxiously  to  the  right 
and  to  the  left,  but  all  was  altered — all  was  strange. 
Arcades  now  took  precedence  of  the  ancient,  in- 
convenient shops,  there  being  one  between  every 
square,  extending  from  Chestnut  to  Market  on  one 
side,  and  to  Walnut  on  the  other,  intersecting  the 
smaller  streets  and  alleys  in  their  way.  Here  alone 
were  goods  sold — no  where  else  was  there  a  shop 
seen;  and  what  made  it  delightful  was,  that  a  fine 
stream  of  water  ran  through  pipes  under  the  centre 
of  the  pavement,  bursting  up  every  twenty  feet  in 
little  jets,  cooling  the  air,  and  contributing  to  health 
and  cleanliness.  The  arcades  for  the  grocers  were 
as  well  arranged  as  those  for  different  merchandize, 
and  the  fountains  of  water,  which  flowed  perpetually 
in  and  under  their  shops,  dispersed  all  impure  smells 
and  all  decayed  substances. 

"All  this  is  beautiful,"  said  Hastings;  "  but  where 
is  the  old  Arcade — the  original  oner' 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Edgar ; 
"  our  old  Recorder  states  that  it  fell  into  disuse, 
and  was  then  removed,  solely  from  the  circum- 
stance that  the  first  floor  was  raised  from  the  level 
of  the  street;  even  in  our  time  people  dislike  to 
mount  steps  when  they  have  to  go  from  shop  to 
shop  to  purchase  goods." 


YEARS  HENCE.  53 

"  And  what  building  is  that  ? — the  antiquated  one, 
I  mean,  that  stands  in  the  little  court.  The  masons 
are  repairing  it  I  perceive." 

"  That  small,  brick  building — oh,  that  is  the  house 
in  which  William  Penn  lived,"  said  Edgar.  "It 
was  very  much  neglected,  and  was  suffered  to  go 
to  ruin  almost,  till  the  year  1840,  when  a  lady  of 
great  wealth  purchased  a  number  of  the  old  houses 
adjoining  and  opened  an  area  around  it,  putting  the 
whole  house  in  thorough  repair.  She  collected  all 
the  relics  that  remained  of  this  great  man,  and 
placed  them  as  fixtures  there,  and  she  left  ample 
funds  for  repairs,  so  that  there  is  a  hope  that  this 
venerable  and  venerated  building  will  endure  for 
many  centuries  to  come." 

"  And  what  is  this  heap  of  ruins?"  said  Hastings, 
"it  appears  to  have  tumbled  down  through  age;  it 
was  a  large  pile,  if  one  may  judge  from  the  rub- 
bish." 

"  Yes,  it  was  an  immense  building,  and  was  called 
at  first  the  National  Bank.  It  was  built  in  the  year 
1842,  during  the  presidency  of  Daniel  Webster." 

"What,"  said  Hastings,  "was  he  really  president 
of  the  United  States'?  This  is  truly  an  interesting 
piece  of  news." 

"  News,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Edgar,  smiling — "yes, 
it  was  news  three  hundred  years  ago,  but  Daniel 
Webster  now  sleeps  with  his  fathers.  He  was 
really  the  chief  magistrate  for  eight  years,  and 
excepting  for  the  project  of  a  national  bank,  which 
did  not,  however,  exist  long,  he  made  an  able  presi- 
dent, and,  what  was  very  extraordinary,  as  the  old 
Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Miseries  states,  he  gained 
the  good  will  even  of  those  who  were  violently 
opposed  to  him.  He  was  the  first  president  after 
Washington  who  had  independence  of  mind  enough 
to  retain  in  office  all  those  who  had  been  favoured 


54  TIJREE  HUNDRED 

by  his  predecessor.  There  was  not  a  single  re- 
moval." 

"But  his  friends — did  not  they  complain?"  said 
Hastings. 

"It  is  not  stated  that  they  did;  perhaps  he  did 
not  promise  an  office  to  any  one:  at  any  rate  the 
old  'Recorder'  treats  him  respectfully.  It  was 
during  his  term  that  copyrights  were  placed  on  a 
more  liberal  footing  here.  An  Englishman  now 
can  get  his  works  secured  to  him  as  well  as  if  he 
were  a  citizen  of  the  country." 

"  How  long  is  the  copy  right  secured  !  it  used  to 
be,  in  my  time,"  sighed  poor  Hastings,  "  only  four- 
teen years." 

"  Fourteen  years !"  exclaimed  Edgar— >"  you  joke. 
Why,  was  not  a  man  entitled  to  his  own  property 
for  ever?  I  assure  you  that  an  author  now  has  as 
much  control  over  his  own  labours  after  a  lapse 
of  fifty  years  as  he  had  at  the  moment  he  wrote  it. 
Nay,  it  belongs  to  his  family  as  long  as  they  choose 
to  keep  it,  just  the  same  as  if  it  were  a  house  or  a 
tract  of  land.  I  wonder  what  right  the  legislature 
had  to  meddle  with  property  in  that  way.  We 
should  think  a  man  deranged  who  proposed  such  a 
thing." 

"But  how  is  it  when  a  man  invents  a  piece  of 
machinery?  surely  the  term  is  limited  then." 

"Oh,  yes,  that  is  a  different  affair.  If  a  man 
invent  a  new  mode  of  printing,  or  of  propelling 
boats,  then  a  patent  is  secured  to  him  for  that  par- 
ticular invention,  but  it  does  not  prevent  another 
man  from  making  use  of  the  same  power  and  im- 
proving on  the  machinery.  But  there  is  this  bene- 
fit accruing  to  the  original  patentee,  the  one  who 
makes  the  improvement  after  him  is  compelled  to 
purchase  -a  right  of  him.  Our  laws  now,  allow  of 
no  monopolies;  that  is,  no  monopolies  of  soil,  or 


YEARS  HENCE.  5y 

air,  or  water.  On  these  three  elements,  one  person 
has  as  good  a  right  as  another ;  he  that  makes  the 
greatest  improvements  is  entitled  to  the  greatest 
share  of  public  favour,  and,  in  consequence,  the 
arts  have  been  brought  to  their  present  state  of 
perfection." 

"But  rail-roads — surely  these  it  was  necessary  to 
guarantee  to  a  company  on  exclusive  privilege  for  a 
term  of  years,  even  if  a  better  one  could  be  made." 

"  And  I  say,  surely  not.  Why  should  all  the 
people  of  a  great  nation  be  compelled  to  pass  over 
an  unsafe  road,  in  miserably  constructed  cars, 
which  made  such  a  noise  that  for  six  hours  a  man 
had  to  be  mute,  and  where  there  was  perpetual 
fear  of  explosion  from  the  steam  engine — why 
should  this  be,  when  another  company  could  give 
them  a  better  road,  more  commodious  cars,  and  a 
safer  propelling  power?  On  consulting  the  Re- 
corder of  Self-inflicted  Miseries,  you  will  find  that 
in  the  year  184G,  the  monopolies  of  roads,  that  is 
public  roads,  were  broken  up,  and  these  roads  came 
under  the  cognizance  of  the  state  governments,  and 
in  the  year  1900  all  merged  under  one  head.  There 
was  then,  and  has  continued  ever  since,  a  national 
road — the  grand  route  from  one  extreme  of  the 
country  to  the  other.  Cross  roads,  leading  from 
town  to  town  and  village  to  village,  are  under  the 
control  of  the  state  governments.  Here,  let  us  get 
in  this  car  which  is  going  to  Princeton;  it  is  only 
an  hour's  ride.  Well,  here  we  are  seated  in  nice 
rocking  chairs,  and  we  can  talk  at  our  ease;  for 
the  fine  springs  and  neat  workmanship  make  the 
cars  run  without  noise,  as  there  is  but  little  friction, 
the  rails  of  the  road  and  the  tires  of  the  wheels 
being  of  wood.  In  your  time  this  could  not  be  the 
case,  for  as  steam  and  manual  labour  were  expen- 
sive, you  were  forced  to  club  all  together — there 
were,  therefore,  large  cars  that  held  from  eight  to 


56  THREE  HUNDRED 

fourteen  persons;  consequently,  there  had  to  be 
heavy  iron  work  to  keep  these  large  machines 
together.  Now,  you  perceive,  the  cars  are  made 
of  different  sizes,  to  accommodate  either  two  or 
four  persons,  and  they  run  of  themselves.  We  have 
only  to  turn  this  little  crank,  and  the  machine  stops. 
This  is  Bristol.  It  was  a  very  small  town  in  your 
day,  but  by  connecting  it  to  Burlington,  which  lies 
slantingly  opposite,  the  town  soon  rose  to  its  present 
eminence.  Burlington,  too,  is  a  large  city — look 
at  the  green  bank  yonder;  it  is  a  paradise:  and 
look  at  that  large  tree — it  is  a  buttonwood  or 
sycamore ;  we  cannot  see  it  very  distinctly ;  take 
this  pocket  glass.  Well,  you  see  it  now  at  the  foot 
of  the  beautiful  green  slope  in  front  of  the  largest 
marble  building  on  this  bank.  That  tree  is  upwards 
of  four  hundred  years  old,  but  the  house  was  built 
within  the  last  century." 

"What  a  change,"  said  Hastings,  as  they  returned 
to  their  car, — "  all  is  altered.  New  Jersey,  tho 
meanest  and  the  poorest  state  in  the  union,  is  now 
in  appearance  equal  to  the  other  inland  states.  It 
was  in  my  time  a  mere  thoroughfare.  What  has 
thus  changed  the  whole  face  of  nature." 

"  Why  canals  and  rail  roads  in  the  first  place, 
and  rail  roads  now;  for  in  a  few  years  canals  were 
entirely  abandoned.  That  is,  as  soon  as  the  new 
propelling  power  came  into  use,  it  was  found  far 
more  economical  to  travel  on  rail  roads.  The 
track  of  canals  through  four  of  the  principal  states 
is  no  longer  to  be  seen." 

At  Princeton,  the  first  thing  to  be  seen  was 
the  college;  not  the  same  that  existed  in  Hastings's 
day,  but  a  long,  deep  range  of  stone  buildings, 
six  in  number,  with  work  shops  attached  to  them, 
after  the  mode  so  happily  begun  by  Fellenberg.  In 
these  work  shops  the  young  men  worked  during 
leisure   hours,  every  one  learning  some  trade  or 


YEARS  HENCE.  57 

some  handicraft,  by  which  he  could  earn  a  living 
if  necessity  required  it.  Large  gardens  lay  in  the 
rear,  cultivated  entirely  by  the  labour  of  the  stu- 
dents, particularly  by  those  who  were  intended  for 
clergymen,  as  many  of  this  class  were  destined  to 
live  in  the  country.  The  college  was  well  endowed, 
and  the  salaries  of  the  professors  were  ample.  It 
was  able  to  maintain  and  educate  three  hundred 
boys — the  children  of  the  rich  and  the  poor. 

"  How  do  they  select  professors  V  said  Hastings  \ 
"in  my  day  a  very  scandalous  practice  prevailed. 
I  hope  there  is  a  change  in  this  particular." 

"Oh,  I  know  to  what  you  refer,"  said  Edgar; 
"I  read  an  account  of  it  in  the  Recorder.  It  seems 
that  when  a  college  wanted  a  professor,  or  a  presi- 
dent, they  either  wrote  a  letter,  or  sent  a  committee 
of  gentlemen  to  the  professor  of  another  college, 
and  told  him  that  if  he  would  quit  the  people  who 
had  with  so  much  difficulty  made  up  a  salary  for 
him,  they  would  give  him  a  hundred  dollars  a  year 
more.  They  made  it  appear  very  plausible  and 
profitable,  and  the  idea  of  being  thought  of  so  much 
consequence  quite  unsettled  his  notions  of  right  and 
wrong,  so  that,  without  scruple,  he  gave  notice  to 
his  patrons  that  they  must  get  another  man  in  his 
place.  I  believe  this  is  the  true  state  of  the  case. 
Is  it  not?' 

"Yes,  that  is  the  English  of  it,  as  we  say.  The 
funds  for  the  support  of  a  professor  were  gathered 
together  with  great  difficulty,  for  there  were  very 
few  who  gave  liberally  and  for  the  pure  love  of  the 
advancement  of  learning.  When  by  the  mere 
force  of  entreaty,  by  appealing  to  the  feelings,  to 
reason,  to — in  short,  each  man's  pulse  was  felt,  and 
the  ruling  passion  was  consulted  and  made  subser- 
vient to  the  plan  of  beguiling  him  of  his  money. 
Well,  the  money  thus  wrung  from  the  majority, — 
tor  you  must  suppose  that  a  few  gave  from  right 

F 


58  THREE  HUNDRED 

motives, — was  appropriated  to  the  salary  of  a  pro- 
fessor, and  then  the  question  arose  as  to  the  man  to 
be  selected.  They  run  their  eye  over  the  whole 
country,  and,  finally,  the  fame  of  some  one  indi- 
vidual induced  them  to  consider  him  as  a  suitable 
candidate.  This  man  was  doing  great  service 
where  he  was ;  the  college,  almost  gone  to  decay, 
was  resuscitated  by  his  exertions;  students  came 
from  all  parts  on  the  faith  of  his  remaining  there ; 
in  fact,  he  had  given  an  impulse  to  the  whole  dis- 
trict. What  a  pity  to  remove  such  a  man  from  a 
place  where  the  benefits  of  his  labour  and  his 
energies  were  so  great,  and  where  his  removal 
would  produce  such  regrets  and  such  a  deterio- 
rating change!  But  our  new  professor,  being 
established  in  the  new  college,  instead  of  going  to 
work  with  the  same  alacrity,  and  with  the  same 
views,  which  views  were  to  spend  his  life  in  pro- 
moting the  interests  of  the  college  which  he  had 
helped  to  raise,  now  began  to  look  ia-head,''  as  the 
term  is,  and  he  waited  impatiently  for  the  rise  of 
another  establishment,  in  the  city  perhaps,  where 
every  thing  was  more  congenial  to  his  newly 
awakened  tastes.  Thus  it  went  on — change,  change, 
for  ever;  and  in  the  end  he  found  himself  much 
worse  off  than  if  he  had  remained  in  the  place 
which  first  patronised  him.  It  is  certainly  a  man's 
duty  to  do  the  best  he  can  for  the  advancement  of 
his  own  interest,  and  if  he  can  get  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year  more  in  one  place  than  in  another, 
he  has  a  right  to  do  it ;  but  the  advantage  of  change 
is  always  problematical.  The  complaint  is  not  so 
much  against  him,  however,  as  against  those  who 
so  indelicately  inveigle  him  away." 

"  Yes.  I  can  easily  imagine  how  hurtful  in  its 
effects  such  a  policy  would  be,  for  instance,  to  a 
merchant,  although  it  is  pernicious  in  every  case. 
But  here  is  a  merchant — he  has  regularly  inducted 


YEARS   HEM   K. 


59 


a  clerk  in  all  the  perplexities  and  mysteries  of  his 
business;  the  young  man  becomes  acquainted  with 
his  pi'ivate  affairs,  and  by  his  acuteness  and  industry 
he  relieves  his  employer  of  one  half  of  his  anxieties 
and  cares.  The  time  is  coming  when  he  might 
think  it  proper  to  raise  the  salary  of  the  young 
man,  but  his  neighbours  envy  the  merchant's  pros- 
perity, and  they  want  to  take  advantage  of  the 
talent  which  has  grown  up  under  his  vigilance  and 
superintending  care.  '  If  he  does  so  well  for  a  man 
who  gives  him  but  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  he 
will  do  as  well,  or  better,  for  ten.'  So  they  go 
underhandedly  to  work,  and  the  young  man  gives 
the  merchant  notice  that  his  neighbour  has  offered 
him  a  larger  salary.  The  old  Recorder  is  quite 
indignant  at  this  mean  and  base  mode  of  bettering 
the  condition  of  one  man  or  one  institution  at  the 
expense  of  another.  But  was  it  the  case  also  with 
house  servants  ? — did  the  women  of  your  day  send 
a  committee  or  write  a  letter  to  the  servant  of  one 
of  their  friends,  offering  higher  wages — for  the 
cases  are  exactly  similar;  it  is  only  talent  of 
another  form,  but  equally  useful." 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,"  said  Hastings — "  then  the  sex 
showed  their  superior  delicacy  and  refinement.  It 
was  thought  most  disgraceful  and  unlady-like  con- 
duct to  enveigle  away  the  servant  of  a  neighbour, 
or,  in  fact,  of  a  stranger  ;  I  have  heard  it  frequently 
canvassed.  A  servant,  a  clerk,  a  professor,  or  a 
clergyman,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  would  be  con- 
tented in  his  situation  if  offers  of  this  kind  were  not 
forced  upon  him.  A  servant  cannot  feel  an  attach- 
ment to  a  mistress  when  she  contemplates  leaving 
her  at  the  first  offer;  no  tender  feeling  can  subsist 
between  them,  and  in  the  case  of  a  clergyman,  the 
consequence  is  very  bad  both  to  himself  and  his 
parish.     In  the  good  old  times" — 

"And  in  the  good  new  times,  if  you  please,"  said 


60  THRBE  HUNDRED 

Edgar;  "for  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say. 
In  our  times  there  is  no  such  thing  as  changing  a 
clergyman.  Why,  we  should  as  soon  think  of 
changing  our  father!  A  clergyman  is  selected 
with  great  care  for  his  piety  and  learning — but 
principally  for  his  piety ;  and,  in  consequence  of 
there  being  no  old  clergymen  out  of  place,  he  is  a 
young  man,  who  comes  amongst  us  in  early  life, 
and  sees  our  children  grow  up  around  him,  he 
becomes  acquainted  with  their  character,  and  he 
has  a  paternal  eye  over  their  eternal  welfare.  They 
love  and  reverence  him,  and  it  is  their  delight  to 
do  him  honour.  His  salary  is  a  mere  trifle  perhaps, 
for  in  some  country  towns  a  clergyman  does  not 
get  more  than  five  or  six  hundred  dollars  a  year, 
but  his  wants  are  all  supplied  with  the  most  affec- 
tionate care.  He  receives  their  delightful  gifts  as 
a  father  receives  the  gifts  of  his  children ;  he  is 
sure  of  being  amply  provided  for,  and  he  takes  no 
thought  of  wnat  he  is  to  eat  or  what  he  is  to  wear. 
He  pays  neither  house  rent,  for  there  is  always  a 
parsonage;  nor  taxes;  he  pays  neither  physician 
nor  teacher  ;  his  library  is  as  good  as  the  means  of 
his  congregation  can  afford  ;  and  there  he  is  with 
a  mind  free  from  worldly  solicitude,  doing  good  to 
the  souls  of  those  who  so  abundantly  supply  him 
with  worldly  comforts.  In  your  day,  as  the  Re- 
corder states" — 

"  Yes,"  said  Hastings,  "  in  my  day,  things  were 
bad  enough,  for  a  clergyman  was  more  imposed 
upon  than  any  other  professional  man.  He  was 
expected  to  subscribe  to  every  charity  that  was 
set  on  foot — to  every  mission  that  was  sent  out — 
to  every  church  that  was  to  be  built — to  every 
paper  that  related  to  church  offices;  he  had  to  give 
up  all  his  time  to  his  people — literally  all  his  time, 
for  they  expected  him  to  visit  at  their  houses,  not 
when   ill,  or  when  wanting  spiritual  consolation, 


VEAKS  HENCE.  Gl 

for  that  he  would  delight  to  do,  but  in  the  ordinary- 
chit-chat,  gossiping  way,  that  he  might  hear  them 
talk  of  their  neighbours'  backslidings,  of  this  one 
who  gave  expensive  supper  parties,  and  of  another 
who  gave  balls  and  went  to  theatres.  Never  was 
there  a  man  from  whom  so  much  was  exacted,  and 
to  whom  so  little  was  given.  There  were  clergy- 
men, in  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  belonging  to 
wealthy  congregations,  who  never  so  much  as 
received  a  plum  cake  for  the  new  year's  table,  or 
a  minced  pie  at  christmas,  or  a  basket  of  fruit  in 
summer;  yet  he  was  expected  to  entertain  company 
at  all  times.  His  congregation  never  seemed  to 
recollect  that,  with  his  limited  means,  he  could  not 
lay  up  a  cent  for  his  children.  Other  salaried  men 
could  increase  their  means  by  speculation,  or  by  a 
variety  of  methods,  but  a  clergyman  had  to  live  on 
with  the  melancholy  feelings  that  when  he  died  his 
children  must  be  dependent  on  charity.  Women 
di  I  do  their  best  to  aid  their  pastors,  but  they  could 
not  do  much,  and  even  in  the  way  that  some  of 
them  assisted  their  clergymen  there  was  a  want  of 
judgment;  for  they  took  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths 
of  poor  women,  who  would  otherwise  have  got  the 
money  for  the  very  articles  which  the  rich  of  their 
congregation  made  and  sold  for  the  benefit  of  this 
very  man.  Feeling  the  shame  and  disgrace  of  his 
being  obliged  to  subscribe  to  a  charity,  they  earned 
among  themselves,  by  sewing,  a  sum  sufficient  to 
constitute  him  a  '  life  member  !'  What  a  hoax  upon 
charity!  What  a  poor,  pitiful  compliment, — and 
at  whose  expense  1  The  twenty-five  dollars  thus 
necessary  to  be  raised,  which  was  to  constitute 
their  beloved  pastor  a  life  member  of  a  charitable 
society,  would  be  applied  to  a  better  purpose,  if 
they  had  bought  him  some  rare  and  valuable  book, 
such  as  his  small  means  could  not  allow  him  to 
buy." 

f  2 


62  THREE  HUNDRED 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  one  so  much  respected 
by  us  had  those  sentiments,"  said  Edgar,  "  for  the 
old  Recorder,  even  in  the  year  1850,  speaks  of  the 
little  reverence  that  the  people  felt  for  their  clergy. 
Now,  we  vie  with  each  other  in  making  him  com- 
fortable; he  is  not  looked  upon  as  a  man  from  whom 
we  are  to  get  our  pennyworth,  as  we  do  from 
those  of  other  professions — he  is  our  pastor,  a  dear 
and  endearing  word,  and  we  should  never  think  of 
dismissing  him  because  he  had  not  the  gift  of  elo- 
quence, or  because  he  was  wanting  in  grace  of 
action,  or  because  he  did  not  come  amongst  us 
every  day  to  listen  to  our  fiddle-faddle.  When  we 
want  spiritual  consolement,  or  require  his  services 
in  marriage,  baptism,  or  burial,  then  he  is  at  his 
post,  and  no  severity  of  weather  withholds  him 
from  coming  amongst  us.  In  turn  we  call  on  him 
at  some  stated  period,  when  he  can  be  seen  at  his 
ease  and  enjoy  the  sight  of  our  loving  faces,  and 
happy  is  the  child  who  has  been  patted  on  the  head 
by  him.  When  he  grows  old  we  indulge  him  in 
preaching  his  old  sermons,  or  in  reading  others  that 
have  stood  the  test  of  time,  and  when  the  infirmities 
of  age  disable  him  from  attending  to  his  duties,  we 
draw  him  gently  away  and  give  him  a  competence 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  What  we  should  do 
for  our  father,  we  do  for  our  spiritual  father." 

"  I  am  truly  rejoiced  at  this,"  said  Hastings,  "  for 
in  my  day  a  clergyman  never  felt  secure  of  the 
affections  of  his  people.  If  he  was  deficient  in 
that  external  polish,  which  certainly  is  a  charm  in 
an  orator,  or  was  wanting  in  vehemence  of  action, 
or  in  enthusiasm,  the  wray  to  displace  him  was  sim- 
ple and  easy:  dissatisfaction  showed  itself  in  every 
action  of  theirs — to  sum  up  all,  they  '  held  him 
uneasy,'  and  many  a  respectable,  godly  man  was 
forced  to  relinquish  his  hold  on  his  cure  to  give 
place  to  a  younger  and  a  more  popular  one." 


YEARS  HEXCE.  63 

"  Do  you  send  a  committee  to  a  popular  clergy- 
man, and  cajole  him  away  from  his  congregation, 
by  offering  him  a  larger  salary  or  greater  per- 
quisites?" 

"  Oh  no — never,  never:  the  very  question  shocks 
me.  Our  professors  and  our  clergymen  are  taken 
from  the  colleges  and  seminaries  where  they  are 
educated.  They  are  young,  generally,  and  are  the 
better  able  to  adapt  themselves  to  the  feelings  and 
capacities  of  their  students  and  their  congregation. 
Parents  give  up  the  idle  desire  which  they  had  in 
your  time,  of  hearing  fine  preaching  at  the  expense 
of  honour  and  delicacv.  When  a  congregation 
became  very  much  attached  to  their  pastor,  and  he 
was  doing  good  amongst  them,  it  was  cruel  to 
break  in  upon  their  peace  and  happiness  merely 
because  it  was  in  a  person's  power  to  do  this.  We 
are  certainly  much  better  pleased  to  have  a  clergy- 
man with  fine  talents  and  a  graceful  exterior,  but 
we  value  him  more  for  goodness  of  heart  and  honest 
principles.  Bat.  however  gifted  he  may  be,  we 
never  break  the  tenth  commandment,  we  never 
desire  to  take  him  away  from  our  neighbour,  nor 
even  in  your  time  do  I  think  a  clergyman  would 
ever  seek  to  leave  his  charge,  unless  strongly  im- 
portuned." 

"Pray  can  you  tell  me."  said  Hastings.  "  what 
has  become  of  that  vast  amount  of  property  which 
belonged  to  the in  New  York  !" 

u  Oh,  it  did  a  vast  deal  of  good;  after  a  time  it 
was  discovered  that  the  trustees  had  the  power  of 
being  more  liberal  with  it :  other  churches,  or  ra- 
ther all  the  Episcopal  churches  in  the  state,  were 
assisted,  and,  finally,  each  church  received  a  yearly 
sum,  sufficient  to  maintain  a  clergyman.  Every 
village,  therefore,  had  a  church  and  a  clergyman  : 
and  in  due  time,  from  this  very  circumstance,  the 
Episcopalians  came  to  be  more  numerous  in  New 


Ot  THREE  IIUNDKEO 

York  than  any  other  sect.  It  is  not  now  as  it  was 
in  your  time,  in  the  year  1835;  then  a  poor  cler- 
gyman, that  he  might  have  the  means  to  live,  was 
compelled  to  travel  through  two,  three,  and  some- 
times four  parishes :  all  these  clubbing  together  to 
make  up  the  sum  of  six  hundred  dollars  in  a  year. 
Now  this  was  scandalous,  when  that  large  trust 
had  such  ample  means  in  its  power  to  give  liberally 
to  every  church  in  the  state." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Hastings,  "  the  true  intent  of 
accumulating  wealth  in  churches,  is  to  advance  re- 
ligion ;  for  what  other  purposes  are  the  funds  cre- 
ated ?  I  used  to  smile  when  I  saw  the  amazing 
liberality  of  the  trustees  of  this  immense  fund ; 
they  would,  in  the  most  freezing  and  pompous  man- 
ner, dole  out  a  thousand  dollars  to  this  church,  and 
a  thousand  to  that,  making  them  all  understand  that 
nothing  more  could  be  done,  as  they  were  fearful, 
even  in  doing  this,  that  they  had  gone  beyond  their 
charter." 

"Just  as  if  they  did  not  know,"  said  Edgar, 
"  that  any  set  of  men,  in  any  legislature,  would 
give  them  full  powers  to  expend  the  whole  income 
in  the  cause  of  their  own  peculiar  religion.  Why 
I  cannot  tell  how  many  years  were  suffered  to 
elapse  before  they  raised  what  was  called  a  Bishop's 
Fund,  and  you  know  better  than  T  do,  how  it  was 
raised,  or  rather,  how  it  commenced.  And  the  old 
Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Miseries,  states,  that  the 
fund  for  the  support  of  decayed  clergymen  and 
their  families,  was  raised  by  the  poor  clergymen 
themselves.  Never  were  people  so  hardly  used  as 
these  ministers  of  the  Gospel.  You  were  an  irrc- 
verend,  exacting  race  in  your  day;  you  expected 
more  from  a  preacher  than  from  any  other  person 
to  whom  they  gave  salaries — they  were  screwed 
down  to  the  last  thread  of  the  screw;  people  would 
have   their    pennyworth    out    of   them.     It    is    no 


VEARS  HENCE.  65 

wonder  that  you  had  such  poor  preachers  in  your 
day ;  why  few  men  of  liberal  education,  aware  of 
all  the  exactions  and  disabilities  under  which  the 
sacred  cloth  laboured,  would  ever  encounter  them. 
But,  now,  every  village  has  its  own  pastor;  and 
some  of  them  are  highly  gifted  men,  commanding 
the  attention  of  the  most  intelligent  people.  The 
little  churches  are  filled,  throughout  the  summer, 
with  such  of  the  gentry  of  the  cities  who  can  af- 
ford to  spend  a  few  months  in  the  country  during 
the  warm  weather.  No  one,  however,  has  the  in- 
decency or  the  unfeelingness  to  covet  this  preacher 
for  their  own  church  in  the  city.  They  do  not  at- 
tempt to  bribe  him  away,  but  leave  him  there,  sa- 
tisfied that  the  poor  people  who  take  such  delight 
in  administering  to  his  wants  and  his  comforts, 
should  have  the  benefit  of  his  piety,  his  learning 
and  his  example.  Why,  the  clergymen,  now,  are 
our  best  horticulturists  too.  It  is  to  them  that  we 
owe  the  great  advancement  in  this  useful  art.  They 
even  taught,  themselves,  while  at  college,  and  now 
they  encourage  their  parishioners  to  cultivate  gar- 
dens and  orchards.  Every  village,  as  well  as  town 
and  city,  has  a  large  garden  attached  to  it,  in  which 
the  children  of  the  poor  are  taught  to  work,  so  that 
to  till  the  earth  and  to  '  make  two  blades  of  grass 
grow  where  only  one  grew  before,'  is  now  the 
chief  aim  of  every  individual;  and  we  owe  this, 
principally,  to  our  pastors.  I  can  tell  you  that  it  is 
something  now  to  be  a  country  clergyman." 

"But  how  were  funds  raised  for  the  purchase  of 
these  garden  and  orchard  spots  V 

"  Why,  through  the  means  of  the  general  tax, 
that  which,  in  your  day,  would  have  been  called  di- 
rect tax." 

"  Direct  tax  !  Why  my  dear  Edgar,  such  a  thing 
could  never  have  been  tolerated  in  my  time;  peo- 
ple would  have  burnt  the  man  in  effigy  for  only 


60  THKEE  IlUNimUL) 

pro])osing  such  a  thing.  It  was  once  or  twice  at- 
tempted, indirectly,  and  in  a  very  cautious  way,  but 
it  would  not  do." 

"  Yes — direct  tax — I  knew  you  would  be  startled, 
for  the  old  Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Miseries  states 
that  at  the  close  of  Daniel  Webster's  administra- 
tion something  of  the  kind  was  suggested,  but  even 
then,  so  late  as  the  year  1850,  it  was  violently  op- 
posed. But  a  new  state  of  things  gradually  paved 
the  way  for  it,  and  now  we  cannot  but  pity  the 
times  when  all  the  poor  inhabitants  of  this  free 
country  were  taxed  so  unequally.  There  is  now, 
but  one  tax,  and  each  man  is  made  to  pay  accord- 
ing to  the  value  of  his  property,  or  his  business,  or 
his  labour.  A  land-holder,  a  stock-holder  and  the 
one  who  has  houses  and  bonds  and  mortgages,  pays 
so  much  per  cent,  on  the  advance  of  his  property, 
and  for  his  annual  receipts — the  merchant,  with  a 
fluctuating  capital,  pays  so  much  on  his  book  ac- 
count of  sales — the  mechanic  and  labourer,  so 
much  on  their  yearly  receipts,  for  we  have  no  sales 
on  credit  now — that  demoralizing  practice  has  been 
abolished  for  upwards  of  a  century." 

"  The  merchants,  then,"  said  Hastings,  "  pay 
more  than  any  other  class  of  men,  for  there  are  the 
customhouse  bonds." 

"  Yes,"  said  Edgar,  "  I  recollect  reading  in  the 
Recorder  of  Self-inflicted  Miseries, — you  must  run 
your  eye  over  that  celebrated  newspaper — that  all 
goods  imported  from  foreign  ports  had  to  pay  du- 
ties, as  it  was  called.  But  every  thing  now  is  free 
to  come  and  go,  and  as  the  custom  prevails  all  over 
the  world,  there  is  no  hardship  to  any  one.  What 
a  demoralizing  effect  that  duty  or  tariff  system  pro- 
duced ;  why  honesty  was  but  a  loose  term  then, 
and  did  not  apply  to  every  act  as  it  now  does.  The 
Recorder  was  full  of  the  exposures  that  were  yearly 
occurring,  of  defrauding  the  revenue,  as  it  was  call- 


YEARS  HENCE.  67 

ed.  Some  of  these  frauds  were  to  a  large  amount; 
and  then  it  was  considered  as  a  crime;  but  when  a 
man  smuggled  in  hats,  shoes,  coats  and  other  arti- 
cles of  the  like  nature,  he  was  suffered  to  go  free; 
such  small  offences  were  winked  at  as  if  defrauding 
the  revenue  of  a  dollar  were  not  a  crime  per  se  as 
well  as  defrauding  it  of  a  thousand  dollars — just  as 
if  murdering  an  infant  were  not  as  much  murder  as 
if  the  life  had  been  taken  from  a  man — just  as  if 
killing  a  man  in  private,  because  his  enemy  had 
paid  you  to  do  it,  was  not  as  much  murder  in  the 
first  degree  as  if  the  government  had  paid  you  for 
killing  a  dozen  men  in  battle  in  open  day — just  as 
if"— 

"  Just  as  if  what?"  said  the  astonished  Hastings, 
"  has  the  time  come  when  killing  men  by  whole- 
sale, in  war,  is  accounted  a  crime?" 

"  Yes,  thank  Heaven,"  said  Edgar,  "that  bless- 
ed time  has  at  length  arrived ;  it  is  upwards  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty  years  since  men  were  ordered 
to  kill  one  another  in  that  barbarous  manner.  Why 
the  recital  of  such  cruel  and  barbarous  deeds  fills 
our  young  children  with  horror.  The  ancient  po- 
licy of  referring  the  disputes  of  nations  to  single 
combat,  was  far  more  humanizing  than  the  refer- 
ring such  disputes  to  ten  thousand  men  on  each 
side;  for,  after  all,  it  was  '  might  that  made  right.' 
Because  a  strong  party  beats  a  weaker  one,  that  is 
not  a  proof  that  the  right  was  in  the  strong  one; 
yet,  still,  if  men  had  no  other  way  of  settling  their 
disputes  but  by  spilling  blood,  then  that  plan  was 
the  most  humane  which  only  sacrificed  two  or  one 
man.  As  to  national  honour!  why  not  let  the  few 
settle  it?  why  drag  the  poor  sailors  and  soldiers  to 
be  butchered  like  cattle  to  gratify  the  fine  feelings 
of  a  few  morbidly  constructed  minds?" 

"  Oh,  that  my  good  father,  Valentine  Harley, 
could   have  seen  this  day,"  said  Hastings.     "  But 


68  THREE  HUNDRED 

this  bloodthirsty,  savage  propensity — this  murder- 
ing our  fellow  creatures  in  cold  blood,  as  it  were, 
was  cured  by  degrees  I  presume.  What  gave  the 
first  impulse  to  such  a  blessed  change !" 

"  The  old  Recorder  states  that  it  was  brought 
about  by  the  influence  of  women  ;  it  was  they  who 
gave  the  first  impulse.  As  soon  as  they  themselves 
were  considered  as  of  equal  importance  with  their 
husbands — as  soon  as  they  were  on  an  equality  in 
money  matters,  for  after  all,  people  are  inspected  in 
proportion  to  their  wealth,  that  moment  all  the  bar- 
barisms of  the  age  disappeared.  Why,  in  your 
day,  a  strange  perverted  system  had  taken  deep 
root ;  then,  it  was  the  man  that  teas  struck  by  ano- 
ther who  was  disgraced  in  public  opinion,  and  not 
the  one  who  struck  him.  It  was  that  system  which 
fermented  and  promoted  bloodthirstiness,  and  it 
was  encouraged  and  fostered  by  men  and  by  wo- 
men both. 

"  But  as  soon  as  women  had  more  power  in  their 
hands,  their  energies  were  directed  another  way; 
they  became  more  enlightened  as  they  rose  higher 
in  the  scale,  and  instead  of  encroaching  on  our 
privileges,  of  which  we  stood  in  such  fear,  women 
shrunk  farther  and  farther  from  all  approach  to 
men's  pursuits  and  occupations.  Instead  of  con- 
gregating, as  they  did  in  your  time,  to  beg  for  alms 
to  establish  and  sustain  a  charity,  that  they  might 
have  some  independent  power  of  their  own — for 
this  craving  after  distinction  was  almost  always 
blended  with  their  desire  to  do  good — they  united 
for  the  purpose  of  exterminating  that  icar  seed 
above  mentioned — that  system  which  fastened  the 
disgrace  of  a  blow  on  the  one  who  received  it. 
This  was  their  first  effort;  they  then  taught  their 
children  likewise,  that  to  kill  a  man  in  battle,  or 
men  in  battle,  when  mere  national  honour  was  the 
war  cry,  or  when  we  had  been  robbed  of  our  mo- 


YEARS  HENCE.  69 

ney  on  the  high  seas,  was  a  crime  of  the  blackest 
die,  and  contrary  to  the  divine  precepts  of  our  Sa- 
viour. They  taught  them  to  abstain  from  shedding 
human  blood,  excepting  in  self  defence — excepting 
in  case  of  invasion. 

"  They  next  taught  them  to  reverence  religion; 
for  until  bloodthirstiness  was  cured,  how  could  a 
child  reverence  our  Saviour's  precepts?  How 
could  we  recommend  a  wholesome,  simple  diet  to 
a  man  who  had  been  accustomed  to  riot  in  rich 
sauces  and  condiments?  They  had  first  to  wean 
them  from  the  savage  propensities  that  they  had 
received  through  the  maddening  influence  of  un- 
reflecting men,  before  a  reverence  for  holy  things 
could  be  excited.  Then  it  was  that  clergymen  be- 
came the  exalted  beings  in  our  eyes  that  they  now 
are — then  it  was  that  children  began  to  love  and 
respect  them.  As  soon  as  their  fathers  did  their 
mothers  the  poor  justice  of  trusting  them  with  all 
tneir  properly,  the  children  began  to  respect  her  as 
they  ought,  and  then  her  words  were  the  words  of 
wisdom.  It  was  then,  and  not  till  then,  that  war 
and  duelling  ceased.  We  are  amazed  at  what  we 
read.  What !  take  away  a  man's  life  because  he 
has  robbed  us  of  money  !  Hang  a  man  because 
he  has  forged  our  name  for  a  few  dollars !  No : 
go  to  our  prisons,  there  you  will  see  the  murderer's 
fate — solitary  confinement,  at  hard  labour,  for  life  ! 
that  is  his  punishment;  but  murders  are  very  rare 
now  in  this  country.  A  man  stands  in  greater 
dread  of  solitary  confinement  at  hard  labour  than 
he  does  of  hanging.  In  fact,  according  to  our  way 
of  thinking,  now,  we  have  no  right,  by  the  Divine 
law,  to  take  that  away  from  a  human  being  for 
which  we  can  give  no  equivalent.  It  is  right  to 
prevent  a  murderer  from  committing  still  farther 
crime ;  and  this  we  do  by  confining  him  for  life  at 
hard  labour,  and  alone" 
o 


70  THREE  HUNDRED 

"  Women,  you  say,  produced  a  reform  in  that 
miserable  code  called  the  law  of  honour." 

"  Yes,  thanks  be  to  them  for  it.  Why,  as  the 
old  Recorder  states,  if  a  man  did  not  challenge  the 
fellow  who  struck  him,  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the 
army  or  the  navy,  and  be  for  ever  banished  as  a 
coward,  and  it  was  considered  as  disgraceful  in  a 
private  citizen  to  receive  a  blow  without  challeng- 
ing the  ruffian  that  struck  him.  But  the  moment 
that  women  took  the  office  in  hand,  that  moment 
the  thing  was  reversed.  They  entered  into  a  com- 
pact not  to  receive  a  man  into  their  society  who 
had  struck  another,  unless  he  made  such  ample 
apology  to  the  injured  person  as  to  be  forgiven  by 
him;  and  not  only  that,  but  his  restoration  to  fa- 
vour was  to  be  sued  for  by  the  injured  party  him- 
self. A  man  soon  became  cautious  how  he  incur- 
red the  risk." 

"  It  often  occurred  to  me,"  said  Hastings,  "  that 
women  had  much  of  the  means  of  moral  reform  in 
their  power  ;  but  they  always  appeared  to  be  pur- 
suing objects  tending  rather  to  weaken  than  to 
strengthen  morals.  They  acted  with  good  inten- 
tions, but  really  wanted  judgment  to  select  the  pro- 
per method  of  pursuing  their  benevolent  schemes. 
Only  look  at  their  toiling  as  they  did  to  collect 
funds  towards  educating  poor  young  men  for  the 
ministry." 

"  Oh,  those  young  men,"  replied  Edgar,  "  were, 
no  doubt,  their  sons  or  brothers,  and  even  then  they 
must  have  been  working  at  some  trade  to  assist 
their  parents  or  some  poor  relation,  and  thus  had 
to  neglect  themselves." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Hastings,  "  I  assure  you  these 
young  men  were  entire  strangers,  persons  that  they 
never  saw  in  their  lives,  nor  ever  expected  to  see." 

"  Then,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  the  women  were 
to  be  pitied  for  their  mistaken  zeal,  and  the  men 


YEARS  HENCE.  71 

ought  to  have  scorned  such  aid — but  the  times  are 
altered ;  no  man,  no  poor  man  stands  in  need  of 
women's  help  now,  as  they  have  trades  or  employ- 
ments that  enable  them  to  educate  themselves. 
Only  propose  such  a  thing  nou\  and  see  how  it 
would  be  received ;  why  a  young  man  would  think 
you  intended  to  insult  him.  We  pursue  the  plan 
so  admirably  begun  in  your  day  by  the  celebrated 
Fellenberg.  When  we  return  this  way  again,  I 
will  show  you  the  work-shops  attached  to  the  col- 
lege— the  one  we  saw  in  Princeton." 

"  While  we  are  thus  far  on  the  road,  suppose 
that  we  go  to  New  York,"  said  Hastings,  "  I  was 
bound  thither  when  that  calamity  befell  me.  I  won- 
der if  I  shall  see  a  single  house  remaining  that  I 
saw  three  hundred  years  ago." 

Edgar  laughed — "  You  will  see  but  very  few,  I 
can  tell  you,"  said  he,  "  houses,  in  your  day,  were 
built  too  slightly  to  stand  the  test  of  one  century. 
At  one  time,  the  corporation  of  the  city  had  to  in- 
spect the  mortar,  lest  it  should  not  be  strong  enough 
to  cement  the  bricks !  And  it  frequently  happened 
that  houses  tumbled  down,  not  having  been  built 
strong  enough  to  bear  their  own  weight.  A  few  of 
the  public  buildings  remain,  but  they  have  under- 
gone such  changes  that  you  will  hardly  recognize 
them.  The  City  Hall,  indeed,  stands  in  the  same 
place,  but  if  you  approach  it,  in  the  rear,  you  will 
find  that  it  is  of  marble,  and  not  freestone  as  the 
old  Recorder  says  it  was  in  your  time.  But  since 
the  two  great  fires  at  the  close  of  the  years  1835 
and  1842  the  city  underwent  great  alterations." 

11  Great  fires ;  in  what  quarter  of  the  city  were 
they?  They  must  have  been  disasters,  indeed,  to 
be  remembered  for  three  hundred  years." 

"  Yes,  the  first  destroyed  nearly  seven  hundred 
houses,  and  about  fifteen  millions  of  property;  and 
the  second,  upwards  of  a  thousand   houses,  and 


72  THREE  HUNDRED 

about  three  millions  of  property  ;  but  excepting  that 
it  reduced  a  number  of  very  respectable  females  to 
absolute  want,  the  merchants,  and  the  city  itself, 
were  greatly  benefited  by  it.  There  were  salutary 
laws  enacted  in  consequence  of  it,  that  is,  after  the 
second  fire;  for  instance,  the  streets  in  the  burnt 
districts  were  made  wider;  the  houses  were  better 
and  stronger  built;  the  fire  engines  were  drawn  by 
horses,  and  afterwards  by  a  new  power:  firemen 
were  not  only  exempt  from  jury  and  militia  duty, 
but  they  had  a  regular  salary  while  they  served 
out  their  seven  years'  labour;  and  if  any  fireman 
lost  his  life,  or  was  disabled,  his  family  received  the 
salary  for  a  term  of  years.  The  old  Recorder 
says  that  there  was  not  a  merchant  of  any  enter- 
prise who  did  not  recover  from  his  losses  in  three 
years." 

"  But  what  became  of  the  poor  women  who  lost 
all  their  property?  did  they  lose  insurance  stock? 
for  I  presume  the  insurance  companies  became  in- 
solvent." 

"  The  poor  women? — oh,  they  remained  poor — 
nothing  in  your  day  ever  happened  to  better  their 
condition  when  a  calamity  like  that  overtook  the?n. 
Men  had  enough  to  do  to  pity  and  help  themselves. 
Yes,  their  loss  was  in  the  insolvency  of  the-  in- 
surance companies;  but  stock  is  safe  enough  now, 
for  the  last  tremendous  fire  (they  did  not  let  the 
first  make  the  impression  it  ought  to  have  done,) 
roused  the  energies  and  sense  of  the  people,  and  in- 
surance is  managed  very  different.  Every  house, 
now,  whether  of  the  rich  or  the  poor  man,  is  in- 
sured. It  has  to  pay  so  much  additional  tax,  and 
the  corporation  are  the  insurers.  But  the  tax  is  so 
trifling  that  no  one  feels  it  a  burden;  our  houses 
are  almost  all  fire-proof  since  the  discovery  of  a 
substance  which  renders  wood  almost  proof  against 
fire.     But  I  have  a  file  of  the  Recorder  of  Self-In- 


YEARS  HENCE.  73 

flicted  Miseries,  and  you  will  see  the  regular  gra- 
dation from  the  barbarisms  of  your  day  to  the  en- 
lightened times  it  has  been  permitted  you  to  see." 

"  But  the  water,  in  my  day," — poor  Hastings  ne- 
ver repeated  this  without  a  sigh — "  in  my  day  the 
city  was  supplied  by  water  from  a  brackish  stream, 
but  there  was  a  plan  in  contemplation  to  bring  good 
water  to  the  city  from  the  distance  of  forty  miles." 

"  Where,  when  was  that?  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  read  any  thing  about  it. — Oh,  yes,  there  was 
such  a  scheme,  and  it  appears  to  me  they  did  at- 
tempt it,  but  whatever  was  the  cause  of  failure  I 
now  forget ;  at  present  they  have  a  plentiful  supply 
by  means  of  boring.  Some  of  these  bored  wells 
are  upwards  of  a  thousand  feet  deep." 

"  Why  the  Manhattan  Company  made  an  at- 
tempt of  this  kind  in  my  time,  but  they  gave  it  up 
as  hopeless  after  going  down  to  the  depth  of  six  or 
seven  hundred  feet." 

"  Yes,  I  recollect;  but  only  look  at  the  difficul- 
ties they  had  to  encounter.  In  the  first  place,  the 
chisel  that  they  bored  with  was  not  more  than  three 
or  four  inches  wide;  of  course,  as  the  hole  made 
by  this  instrument  could  be  no  larger,  there  was  no 
possibility  of  getting  the  chisel  up  if  it  were  broken 
off  below,  neither  could  they  break  or  cut  it  into 
fragments.  If  such  an  accident  were  to  occur  at 
the  depth  of  six  hundred  feet,  this  bored  hole  would 
have  to  be  abandoned.  We  go  differently  to  work 
now;  with  our  great  engines  we  cut  down  through 
the  earth  and  rock,  as  if  it  were  cheese,  and  the 
wells  are  of  four  feet  diameter.  As  they  are  lined 
throughout  with  an  impervious  cement,  the  over- 
flowing water  does  not  escape.  Every  house  is 
now  supplied  from  this  neverfailing  source — the 
rich,  and  the  poor  likewise,  use  this  water,  and  it 
is  excellent.  All  the  expense  comes  within  the 
one  yearly  general  tax:  when  a  man  builds  he 
g  2 


74  THREE  HUNDRED 

knows  that  pipes  are  to  be  conveyed  through  his 
house,  and  he  knows  also  that  his  one  tax  compre- 
hends the  use  of  water.  He  pays  so  much  per 
centum  for  water,  for  all  the  municipal  arrange- 
ment, for  defence  of  harbour,  for  the  support  of 
government,  &c,  and  as  there  is  such  a  wide  door 
open,  such  a  competition,  his  food  and  clothing  do 
not  cost  half  as  much  as  they  did  in  your  day."' 

"  You  spoke  of  wells  a  thousand  feet  deep  and 
four  feet  wide  ;  what  became  of  all  the  earth  taken 
from  them — stones  I  should  say." 

"  Oh,  they  were  used  for  the  extension  of  the 
Battery.  Do  you  remember,  in  your  day,  an  ill 
constructed  thing  called  Fort  William,  or  Castle 
Garden?  Well,  the  Battery  was  filled  up  on  each 
side  from  that  point,  so  that  at  present  there  are  at 
least  five  acres  of  ground  more  attached  to  it  than 
when  you  saw  it,  and  as  we  are  now  levelling  a 
part  of  Brooklyn  heights,  we  intend  to  fill  it  out 
much  farther.  The  Battery  is  a  noble  promenade 
now." 

They  reached  New  York  by  the  slow  line  at  two 
o'clock,  having  travelled  at  the  rate  of  thirty  miles 
an  hour;  and  after  walking  up  Broadway  to  amuse 
themselves  with  looking  at  the  improvements  that 
had  taken  place  since  Hastings  last  saw  it  —  three 
hundred  years  previous — they  stopped  at  the  Astor 
Hotel.  This  venerable  building,  the  City  Hall,  the 
Public  Mart,  the  St.  Paul's  Church,  and  a  stone 
house  at  the  lower  end  of  the  street,  built  by  gover- 
nor Jay,  were  all  that  had  stood  the  test  of  ages. 
The  St*.  Paul  was  a  fine  old  church,  but  the  steeple 
had  been  taken  down  and  a  dome  substituted,  as 
was  the  fashion  of  all  the  churches  in  the  city — the 
burial  yards  of  all  were  gone — houses  were  built  on 
them: — vaults,  tombs,  graves,  monuments — what 
had  become  of  them? 

The  Astor  Hotel,  a  noble  building,  of  simple  and 


YEARS  HE.YCE.  75 

chaste  architecture,  stood  just  as  firm,  and  looked 
just  as  well,  as  it  did  when  Hastings  saw  it.  Why 
should  it  not?  stone  is  stone,  and  three  hundred 
years  more  would  pass  over  it  without  impairing 
it.  This  shows  the  advantage  of  stone  over  brick. 
Mr.  Astor  built  for  posterity,  and  he  has  thus  per- 
petuated his  name.  He  was  very  near  living  as 
long  as  this  building;  the  planning  and  completing 
of  it  seemed  to  renovate  him,  for  his  life  was 
extended  to  his  ninety-ninth  year.  This  building 
proves  him  to  have  been  a  man  of  fine  taste  and 
excellent  judgment,  for  it  still  continues  to  be 
admired. 

"  But  how  is  this  I"  said  Hastings,  "  I  see  no 
houses  but  this  one  built  by  Mr.  Astor  that  are 
higher  ihan  three  stories;  it  is  the  case  throughout 
the  city,  stores  and  all." 

"Since  the  two  great  fires  of  1835  and  1842,  the 
corporation  forbid  the  building  of  any  house  or 
store  above  a  certain  height.  Those  tremendous 
fires,  as  I  observed,  brought  people  to  their  senses, 
and  they  now  see  the  folly  of  it. 

"  The  ceilings  are  not  so  high  as  formerly  ;  more 
regard  is  shown  to  comfort.  Why  the  old  Recorder 
of  Self-inflicted  Miseries  states,  that  men  were  so 
indifferent  about  the  conveniences  and  comforts  of 
life,  that  they  would  sometimes  raise  the  ceilings  to 
the  great  height  of  fourteen  and  fifteen  feet !  Nay, 
that  they  did  so  in  despite  of  their  wives'  health, 
never  considering  how  hard  it  bore  on  I  he  lungs  of 
those  who  were  affected  with  asthma  or  other  vis- 
ceral complaints.  Heavens  and  earth!  how  little 
the  ease  and  pleasure  of  women  were  consulted  in 
your  day." 

"  Yes,  that  appears  all  very  true,"  said  Hastings, 
"but  you  must  likewise  recollect  that  these  very 
women  were  quite  as  eager  as  their  husbands  to 
live  in  houses  having  such  high  flights  of  stairs." 


76  THREE  HUNDRED 

"  Poor  things,"  exclaimed  Edgar,  "  to  think  of 
their  being  trained  to  like  and  desire  a  thing  that 
bore  so  hard  on  them.  Only  consider  what  a  ! 
of  time  and  breath  it  must  be  to  go  up  and  down 
forty  or  fifty  times  a  day,  for  your  nurseries  were, 
it  seems,  generally  in  the  third  story.  We  love  our 
wives  too  well  now  to  pitch  our  houses  so  high  up 
in  the  air.  The  Philadelphians  had  far  more  hu- 
manity, more  consideration;  they  always  built  a 
range  of  rooms  in  the  rear  of  the  main  building, 
and  this  w7as  a  great  saving  of  time  and  health." 

"Where,  at  length,  did  they  build  the  custom 
house?"  said  Hastings;  "1  think  there  was  a  diffi- 
culty in  choosing  a  suitable  spot  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  recollect,"  said  Edgar.  "Why  they  did 
at  length  decide,  and  one  was  built  in  Pine  street; 
but  that  has  crumbled  away  long  since.  You  know 
that  we  have  no  necessity  for  a  custom  house  now, 
as  all  foreign  goods  come  free  of  duty.  This  direct 
tax  includes  all  the  expenses  of  the  general  and 
state  governments,  and  it  operates  so  beautifully 
that  the  rich  man  now  bears  his  full  proportion 
towards  the  support  of  the  whole  as  the  poor  man 
does.  This  was  not  the  case  in  your  day.  Only 
think  how  unequally  it  bore  on  the  labourer  who  had 
to  buy  foreign  articles,  such  as  tea,  and  sugar,  and 
coffee,  for  a  wife  and  six  or  eight  children,  and  to 
do  all  this  with  his  wealth,  which  was  the  labour 
of  his  hands.  The  rich  man  did  not  contribute  the 
thousandth  part  of  his  proportion  towards  paying 
for  foreign  goods,  nor  was  he  taxed  according  to 
his  revenue  for  the  support  of  government.  The 
direct  tax  includes  the  poor  man's  wealth,  which 
is  his  labour,  and  the  rich  man's  wealth,  which  is 
his  property." 

"  But  have  the  merchants  nb  mart — no  ex- 
change? According  to  the  map  you  showed  me  of 
the  two  great  fires,  the  first  exchange  was  burnt." 


YEARS  HENCE.  77 

"Yes,  the  merchants  have  a  noble  exchange. 
Did  you  not  see  that  immense  building  on  State 
street,  surrounded  by  an  area?  After  the  first 
great  fire  they  purchased — that  is,  a  company  pur- 
chased— the  whole  block  that  included  State  street 
in  front,  Pearl  street  in  the  rear,  and  Whitehall 
street  at  the  lower  end.  All  mercantile  business  is 
transacted  there,  the  principal  post  office  and  the 
exchange  are  there  now  ;  the  whole  go  under  the 
general  name  of  Mart — the  City  Mart." 

"  Is  it  not  inconvenient  to  have  the  post  office  so 
far  from  the  centre  of  business  ? — it  was  a  vexed 
question  in  my  day,"  said  Hastings. 

"  You  must  recollect  that  even  then,  central  as 
the  post  office  was,  there  were  many  sub-post 
offices.  If  men  in  your  day  were  regardless  of 
the  many  unnecessary  steps  that  their  wives  were 
obliged  to  take,  they  were  very  careful  of  sparing 
themselves.  We  adopt  the  plan  now  of  having 
two  sets  of  post  men  or  letter  carriers  ;  one  set  pass 
through  the  streets  at  a  certain  hour  to  receive 
letters,  their  coming  being  announced  by^  the 
chiming  of  a  few  bells  at  their  cars,  and  the  other 
set  delivering  letters.  They  both  ride  in  cars,  for 
now  that  no  letter,  far  or  near,  pays  more  than 
two  cents  postage — which  money  is  to  pay  the  let- 
ter carriers  themselves — the  number  of  letters  is 
so  great  that  cars  are  really  necessary.  All  the 
expense  of  the  post  office  department  is  defrayed 
from  the  income  or  revenue  of  the  direct  tax — 
and  hence  the  man  of  business  pays  his  just  pro- 
portion too.  It  was  a  wise  thing,  therefore,  to 
establish  all  the  mercantile  offices  near  the  Battery; 
they  knew  that  the  time  was  coming  when  New 
York  and  Brooklyn  would  be  as  one  city." 

"  One  city!"  exclaimed  Hastings;  "how  can 
that  be  ?  If  connected  by  bridges,  how  can  the 
ships  pass  up  the  East  river  ?" 


78  THREE  HUNDRED 

"You  forget  that  our  vessels  have  no  masts; 
they  pass  under  the  bridges  here  as  they  do  in  the 
Delaware." 

"Oh,  true,  I  had  forgotten;  but  my  head  is  so 
confused  with  all  the  wonders  that  I  see  and  hear, 
that  you  must  excuse  my  mistakes.  The  old  thea- 
tre stood  there,  but  it  has  disappeared,  I  suppose.  It 
was  called  the  Park  Theatre.  How  are  the  play 
houses  conducted  now  ?  is  there  only  one  or  two 
good  actors  now  among  a  whole  company?" 

"Well,  that  question  really  does  amuse  me.  I 
dare  say  that  the  people  of  your  day  were  as  much 
astonished  at  reading  the  accounts  handed  down  to 
them  of  the  fight  of  gladiators  before  an  audience, 
as  we  are  at  your  setting  out  evening  after  evening 
to  hear  the  great  poets  travestied.  If  we  could  be 
transported  back  to  your  time,  how  disgusted  we 
should  be  to  spend  four  hours  in  listening  to  rant 
and  ignorance.  All  our  actors  now,  are  men  and 
women  of  education,  such  as  the  Placides,  the 
Wallacks,  the  Kembles,  the  Keans,  of  your  day.  I 
assure  you,  we  would  not  put  up  with  inferior 
talent  in  our  cities.  It  is  a  rich  treat  now  to  listen 
to  one  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  for  every  man  and 
woman  is  perfect  in  the  part.  The  whole  theatrical 
corps  is  held  in  as  much  esteem,  and  make  a  part 
of  our  society,  as  those  of  any  other  profession  do. 
The  worthless  and  the  dissolute  are  more  scrupu- 
lously rejected  by  that  body  than  they  are  from 
the  body  of  lawyers  or  doctors  ;  in  fact  it  is  no 
more  extraordinary  now,  than  it  was  in  your  day 
to  see  a  worthless  lawyer,  or  merchant,  or  physi- 
cian, and  to  see  him  tolerated  in  society  too,  if  he 
happen  to  be  rich.  But  there  is  no  set  of  people 
more  worthy  of  our  friendship  and  esteem  than 
the  players.  A  great  change,  to  be  sure,  took 
place  in  their  character,  as  soon  as  they  had  reaped 
the  benefit  of  a  college  education.     I  presume  you 


VEARS  HENCE.  79 

know  that  there  is  a  college  now  for  the  education 
of  public  actors?" 

"Is  it  possible?"  said  Hastings;  "then  I  can 
easily  imagine  the  improvements  you  speak  of; 
for  with  the  exception  of  the  few — the  stars,  as 
they  were  called — there  was  but  little  education 
among  them." 

"  Here  it  is  that  elocution  is  taught,  and  here  all 
public  speakers  take  lessons,"  said  Edgar;  "you 
may  readily  imagine  what  an  effect  such  an  insti- 
tution would  have  on  those  who  intended  to  become 
actors.  In  your  day,  out  of  the  whole  theatrical 
corps  of  one  city,  not  more  than  six  or  seven,  per- 
haps, could  tell  the  meaning  of  the  icords  they  used 
in  speaking,  to  say  nothing  of  the  sense  of  the 
author.  There  is  no  more  prejudice  now  against 
play-acting  than  there  is  against  farming.  The  old 
Recorder  states,  that,  before  our  revolution,  the 
formers  were  of  a  more  inferior  race,  and  went  as 
little  into  polite  society  as  the  mechanics  did. 
Even  so  far  back  as  your  time  a  farmer  was  some- 
thing of  a  gentleman,  and  why  an  actor  should  not 
be  a  gentleman  is  to  us  incomprehensible.  One  of 
the  principal  causes  of  this  change  of  personal 
feeling  towards  actors  has  arisen  from  our  having 
expunged  all  the  low  and  indelicate  passages  from 
the  early  plays.  Shakspeare  wrote  as  the  times 
then  were,  but  his  works  did  not  depend  on  a  few 
coarse  and  vulgar  passages  for  their  popularity  and 
immortality;  they  could  bear  to  be  taken  out,  as 
you  will  perceive,  for  the  space  they  occupied  is 
not  now  known ;  the  adjoining  sentence  closed 
over  them,  as  it  were,  and  they  are  forgotten. 
There  were  but  few  erasures  to  be  made  in  the 
writings  of  Sir  Walter  Scott;  the  times  were 
beginning  to  loathe  coarse  and  indelicate  allusions 
in  your  day,  and,  indeed,  we  may  thank  the  other 
sex  for  this  great  improvement.     They  never  dis* 


80  THREE  HUNDRED 

graced  their  pages  with  sentences  and  expressions 
which  would  excite  a  blush.  Look  at  the  purity  of 
such  writers  as  Miss  Burney,  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  Miss 
Edgeworlh,  Miss  Austin,  Madame  Cotton,  and 
others  of  their  day  in  Europe, — it  is  to  woman's 
influence  that  we  owe  so  much.  See  what  is  done 
by  them  now;  why  they  have  fairly  routed  and 
scouted  out  that  vile,  disgraceful,  barbarous  prac- 
tice which  was  even  prevalent  in  your  time — that 
of  beating  and  bruising  the  tender  flesh  of  their 
children." 

"  I  am  truly  rejoiced  at  that,"  sajd  Hastings, 
"but  I  hope  they  extended  their  influence  to  the 
schools  likewise — I  mean  the  common  schools ;  for, 
in  my  day  in  the  grammar  school  of  a  college,  a 
man  who  should  bruise  a  child's  flesh  by  beating  or 
whipping  him  would  have  been  kicked  out  of 
society." 

"  Why,  I  thought  that  boys  were  whipped  in  the 
grammar  schools  also.  In  the  year  1836,  it  appears 
to  me,  that  I  remember  to  have  read  of  the  dismis- 
sal of  some  professor  for  injuring  one  of  the  boys 
by  flogging  him  severely." 

"I  do  not  recollect  it;  but  you  say  1836 — alas! 
I  was  unconscious  then.  It  was  the  remains  of 
barbarism  ;  how  a  teacher  could  get  roused  to  such 
height  of  passion  as  to  make  him  desire  to  bruise  a 
child's  flesh,  I  cannot  conceive — when  the  only 
crime  of  the  poor  little  sufferer  was  either  an  un- 
willingness or  an  inability  to  recite  his  lessons.  I 
can  imagine  that  a  man,  when  drunk,  might  bruise 
a  child's  flesh  in  such  a  shocking  manner  as  that 
the  blood  would  settle  under  the  skin,  because 
liquor  always  brutalizes.  Is  drunkenness  as  preva- 
lent now  as  formerly  1" 

"  Oh  no,  none  but  the  lowest  of  the  people  drink 
to  excess  now,  and  they  have  to  get  drunk  on  cider 
and  wine,  for  spirituous  liquors  have  been  prohibited 


YEARS  HENCE.  81 

by  law  for  upwards  of  two  hundred  years.  A  law 
was  passed  in  the  year  1901,  granting  a  divorce  to 
any  woman  whose  husband  was  proved  to  be  a 
drunkard.  This  had  a  good  effect,  for  a  drunkard 
knew  that  if  he  was  abandoned  by  his  wife  he  must 
perish;  so  it  actually  reclaimed  many  drunkards 
at  the  time,  and  had  a  salutary  effect  afterwards. 
Besides  this  punishment,  if  a  single  man,  or  a  bache- 
lor, as  he  is  called,  was  found  drunk  three  times, 
he  was  put  in  the  workhouse  and  obliged  to  have 
his  head  shaved,  and  to  work  at  some  trade.  It  is 
a  very  rare  thing  to  see  a  drunkard  now.  But 
what  are  you  looking  for?" 

"  I  thought  I  might  see  a  cigar  box  about — not 
that  I  ever  smoke" — 

"A  what? — a  cigar?  Oh  yes,  I  know — little 
things  made  of  tobacco  leaves;  but  you  have  to 
learn  that  there  is  not  a  tobacco  plantation  in  the 
world  now.  That  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
parts  of  your  history:  that  well  educated  men  could 
keep  a  pungent  and  bitter  mass  of  leaves  in  their 
mouth  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  stream  of  yel- 
low water  running  out  of  it,  is  the  most  incompre- 
hensible mystery  to  me  ;  and  then,  to  push  the  dust 
of  these  leaves  up  their  nostrils,  which  I  find  by  the 
old  Recorder  that  they  did,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
hearing  the  noise  that  was  made  by  their  noses! 
The  old  Recorder  called  their  pockeL  handkerchiefs 
Hags  of  abomination." 

Hastings  thought  it  was  not  worth  while  to  eoli- 
th o 

vinoe  the  young  man  that  the  disgusting  practice 
was  not  adopted  for  such  purposes  as  he  mentioned. 
In  tact  his  melancholy  had  greatly  increased  since 
their  arrival  in  this  city,  and  he  determined  to  beg 
his  young  friend  to  return  the  next  day  to  their 
home,  and  to  remain  quiet  for  another  year,  to  see 
if  time  could  reconcile  him  to  his  strange  fate.  He 

H 


83  THREE  HUNDRED 

took  pleasure  in  rambling  through  the  city  half, 
and  the  park,  which  remained  still  of  the  same 
shape,  and  he  was  pleased  likewise  to  see  that 
many  of  the  streets  at  right  angles  with  Broadway 
were  more  than  twice  the  width  that  they  were  in 
1835.  For  instance,  all  the  streets  from  Wall 
street  up  to  the  Park  were  as  wide  as  Broadway, 
and  they  were  opened  on  the  other  side  quite  down 
to  the  Hudson. 

"  Yes,"  said  Edgar,  "  it  was  the  great  fire  of 
1842  which  made  this  salutary  change;  but  here 
is  a  neat  building — you  had  nothing  of  this  kind  in 
your  time.  This  is  a  house  where  the  daughters 
of  the  poor  are  taught  to  sew  and  cut  out  wearing 
apparel.  I  suppose  you  know  that  there  are  no 
men  tailors  now." 

"  What,  do  women  take  measure  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  men  are  the  measurers,  but  women  cut 
out  and  sew.  It  is  of  great  advantage  to  poor  wo- 
men that  they  can  cut  out  and  make  their  husbands' 
and  children's  clothes.  The  old  Recorder  states 
that  women — poor  women — in  the  year  1836,  were 
scarcely  able  to  cut  out  their  own  clothes.  But 
just  about  that  date,  a  lady  of  this  city  suggested 
the  plan  of  establishing  an  institution  of  this  kind, 
and  it  was  adopted.  Some  benevolent  men  built 
the  house  and  left  ample  funds  for  the  maintenance 
of  a  certain  number  of  poor  girls,  with  a  good 
salary  for  those  who  superintend  it.  And  here  is 
another  house  :  this  is  for  the  education  of  those 
girls  whose  parents  have  seen  better  clays.  Here 
they  are  taught  accounts  and  book-keeping — which, 
however,  in  our  day  is  not  so  complicated  as  it 
was,  for  there  is  no  credit  given  for  any  thing.  In 
short  these  girls  are  instructed  in  all  that  relates  to 
the  disposal  of  money ;  our  women  now  compre- 
hend what  is  meant  by  stocks,  and  dividends,  and 
loans,  and  tracts,  and  bonds,  and  mortgages." 


YEARS  HENCE.  83 

"Do  women  still  get  the  third  of  their  husband's 
estate  after  their  husband's  death?" 

"  Their  thirds  1  I  don't  know  what  you  mean — 
Oh,  I  recollect ;  yes,  in  your  day  it  was  the  prac- 
tice to  curtail  a  woman's  income  after  her  hus- 
band's death.  A  man  never  then  considered  a 
woman  as  equal  to  himself;  but,  while  he  lived,  he 
let  her  enjoy  the  whole  of  his  income  equally  with 
himself,  because  he  could  not  do  otherwise  and 
enjoy  his  mone)' ;  but  when  he  died,  or  rather,  when 
about  making  his  will,  he  found  out  that  she  was 
but  a  poor  creature  after  all,  and  that  a  very  little 
of  what  he  had  to  leave  would  suffice  for  her.  Nay, 
the  old  Recorder  says  that  there  have  been  rich 
men  who  ordered  the  very  house  in  which  they 
lived,  and  which  had  been  built  for  their  wives' 
comfort,  during  their  life  time,  to  be  sold,  and  who 
thus  compelled  their  wives  to  live  in  mean,  pitiful 
houses,  or  go  to  lodgings." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hastings, — quite  ashamed  of  his 
own  times, — "  but  then  you  know  the  husband  was 
fearful  that  his  wife  would  marry  again,  and  all 
their  property  would  go  to  strangers." 

"Well,  why  should  not  women  have  the  same 
privileges  as  men  1  Do  you  not  think  that  a 
woman  had  the  same  fears  ?  A  man  married 
again  and  gave  his  money  to  strangers — did  he 
not?  The  fact  is,  we  consider  that  a  woman 
has  the  same  feelings  as  we  have  ourselves — a 
thing  you  never  once  thought  of — and  now  the 
property  that  is  made  during  marriage  is  as  much 
the  woman's  as  the  man's;  they  are  partners  in 
health  and  in  sickness,  in  joy  and  in  sorrow — they 
enjoy  every  thing  in  common  while  they  live 
together,  and  why  a  woman,  merely  on  account  of 
her  being  more  helpless,  should  be  cut  off  from 
affluence  because  she  survives  her  husband,  is  more 


84  THREE  HUNDRED 

than  we  of  this  century  can  tell.  Why  should  not 
children  wait  for  the  property  till  after  her  death, 
as  they  would  for  their  father's  death  I  It  was  a 
relic  of  barbarism,  but  it  has  passed  away  with 
wars  and  bloodshed.  We  educate  our  women 
now,  and  they  are  as  capable  of  taking  care  of 
property  as  we  are  ourselves.  They  are  our  trus- 
tees, far  better  than  the  trustees  you  had  amongst 
you  in  your  day — they  seldom  could  find  it  in  their 
hearts  to  allow  a  widow  even  her  poor  income.  I 
suppose  they  thought  that  a  creature  so  pitifully 
used  by  her  husband  was  not  worth  bestowing  their 
honesty  upon." 

"But  the  women  in  my  day,"  said  Hastings, 
"seemed  to  approve  of  this  treatment;  in  fact,  1 
have  known  many  very  sensible  women  who 
thought  it  right  that  a  man  should  not  leave  his 
wife  the  whole  of  his  income  after  his  death. 
But  they  were  beginning  to  have  their  eyes 
opened,  for  I  recollect  that  the  subject  was  being 
discussed  in  1835." 

"Yes,  you  can  train  a  mind  to  acquiesce  in  any 
absurd  doctrine,  and  the  truth  is,  that  as  won 
were  then  educated,  they  were,  for  the  most  part, 
unfit  to  have  the  command  of  a  large  estate.  But 
I  cannot  find  that  the  children  were  eventually  be- 
nefited by  it;  for  young  men  and  women,  coming 
into  possession  of  their  father's  estate  at  the  early 
age  of  twenty-one,  possessed  no  more  business  ta- 
lent than  their  mother;  nor  had  they  even  as  much 
prudence  and  judgment  in  the  management  of  mo- 
ney matters,  as  she  had.  Men  seldom  thought  of 
this,  but  generally  directed  their  executors  to  divide 
the  property  among  the  children  as  soon  as  they 
became  of  age — utterly  regardless  of  the  injustice 
they  were  doing  their  wives,  and  of  the  oath  which 
they  took  when  they  married — that  is,  if  they  mar- 


YEARS  HENCE.  85 

ned  according  to  the  forms  of  the  Episcopal  church. 
In  that  service,  a  man  binds  himself  by  a  solemn 
oath  '  to  endow  his  wife  with  all  his  worldly  goods.' 
If  he  swears  to  endow  her  with  all,  how  can  he  in 
safety  to  his  soul,  will  these  worldly  goods  away  from 
her.  We  consider  the  practice  of  depriving  a  wo- 
man of  the  right  to  the  whole  of  her  husband's  pro- 
perty after  his  death,  as  a  monstrous  act  of  injustice, 
and  the  laws  are  now  peremptory  on  this  subject." 

"  I  am  certain  you  are  right,"  said  Hastings,"  and 
you  have  improved  more  rapidly  in  this  particular, 
during  a  period  of  three  hundred  years,  than  was 
done  by  my  ancestors  in  two  thousand  years  before, 
I  can  understand  now,  how  it  happens,  that  children 
have  the  same  respect  for  their  mother,  that  they 
only  felt  for  their  father  in  my  time.  The  custom, 
or  laws,  being  altogether  in  favour  of  equality  of 
rights  between  the  parents,  the  children  do  not  re- 
pine when  they  find  that  they  stand  in  the  same  re- 
lation of  dependence  to  their  mother,  that  they  did 
to  their  father;  and  why  this  should  not  be, is  incom- 
prehensible to  me  now,  but  I  never  reflected  on  it 
before," 

"  Yes,  there  are  fewer  estates  squandered  away 
in  consequence  of  this,  and  society  is  all  the  better 
for  it.  Then  to  this  is  added  the  great  improvement 
in  the  business  education  of  women.  All  the  retail 
and  detail  of  mercantile  operations  are  conducted  by 
them.  You  had  some  notion  of  this  in  your  time;  for, 
in  Philadelphia,  although  women  were  generally 
only  employed  to  make  sales  behind  the  counter,  yet 
some  were  now  and  then  seen  at  the  head  of  the 
establishment.  Before  our  separation  from. Great 
Britain,  the  business  of  farming  was  also  at  a  low 
ebb,  and  a  farmer  was  but  a  mean  person  in  public 
estimation.  He  ranks  now  amongst  the  highest  of 
our  business  men;  and  in  fact,  lie  is  equal  to  any 
a  2 


■66  THREE  HUNDRED 

man  whether  in  business  or  not,  and  this  is  the  case 
"with  female  merchants.  Even  in  1830,  a  woman 
who  undertook  the  business  of  a  retail  shop,  mana- 
ging the  whole  concern  herself,  although  greatly 
respected,  she  never  took  her  rank  amongst  the  first 
classes  of  society.  This  arose,  first,  from  want  of 
education,  and,  secondly,  from  her  having  lived 
amongst  an  inferior  set  of  people.  But  when  wo- 
men were  trained  to  the  comprehension  of  mercan- 
tile operations,  and  were  taught  how  to  dispose  of 
money,  their  whole  character  underwent  a  change, 
and  with  this  accession  of  business  talent,  came  the 
respect  from  men  for  those  who  had  a  capacity  for 
the  conducting  of  business  affairs.  Only  think  what 
an  advantage  this  is  to  our  children;  why  our  mo- 
thers and  wives  are  the  first  teachers,  they  give  us 
sound  views  from  the  very  commencement,  and  our 
clerkship  begins  from  the  time  we  can  comprehend 
the  distinction  of  right  and  wrong." 

"Did  not  our  infant  schools  give  a  great  impulse 
to  this  improvement  in  the  condition  of  women, 
and  to  the  improvement  in  morals,  and  were  not 
women  mainly  instrumental  in  fostering  these 
schools '!" 

"  Yes,  that  they  were;  it  was  chiefly  through  the 
influence  of  their  pen  and  active  benevolence,  that 
the  scheme  arrived  at  perfection.  In  these  infant 
schools  a  child  was  early  taught  the  mystery  of  its 
relation  to  society;  all  its  good  dispositions  and  pro- 
pensities were  encouraged  and  developed,  and  its 
vicious  ones  were  repressed.  The  world  owes 
much  to  the  blessed  influence  of  infant  schools,  and 
the  lower  orders  were  the  first  to  be  humanized  by 
them.  But  I  need  not  dwell  on  this  particular.  1 
shall  only  point  to  the  improvement  in  the  morals 
of  our  people  at  this  day,  to  convince  you  that  it  is 
owing  altogether  to  the  benign  influence  of  women. 


YEARS  HENCE. 

As  soon  as  they  took  their  rank  as  an  equal  to  man, 
equal  as  to  property  I  mean,  for  they  had  no  other 
right  to  desire;  there  was  no  longer  any  struggle, 
it  became  their  ambition  to  show  how  long  the 
world  had  been  benighted  by  thus  keeping  them  in 
a  degraded  state.  I  say  degraded  state,  for  surely 
it  argued  in  them  imbecility  or  incapacity  of  some 
kind,  and  to  great  extent,  too,  when  a  man  appoint- 
ed executors  and  trustees  to  his  estate  whilst  his 
wife  was  living.  It  showed  one  of  three  things — 
that  he  never  considered  her  as  having  equal  rights 
with  himself;  or,  that  he  thought  her  incompetent  to 
take  charge  of  his  property — or,  that  the  customs 
and  laws  of  the  land  had  so  warped  his  judgment, 
that  he  only  did  as  he  saw  others  do,  without  consi- 
dering whether  these  laws  and  customs  were  right 
or  wrong.  But  if  you  only  look  back  you  will  per- 
ceive, that  in  every  benevolent  scheme,  in  every 
plan  for  meliorating  the  condition  of  the  poor,  and 
improving  their  morals,  it  was  women's  influence 
that  promoted  and  festered  it.  It  is  to  that  healthy 
influence,  that  we  owe  our  present  prosperity  and 
happiness — and  it  is  an  influence  which  I  hope  may 
forever  continue." 

It  was  not  to  such  a  man  as  Hastings  that  Edgar 
need  have  spoken  so  earnestly;  he  only  wanted  to 
have  a  subject  fairly  before  him  to  comprehend  it  in 
all  its  bearings.  He  rejoiced  that  women  were 
now  equal  to  men  in  all  that  they  ever  considered  as 
their  rights;  and  he  rejoiced  likewise  that  the  pro- 
per distinction  was  rigidly  observed  between  the 
sexes — that  as  men  no  longer  encroached  on  their 
rights,  they,  in  return,  kept  within  the  limits  assign- 
ed them  by  the  Creator.  As  a  man  and  a  christian, 
he  was  glad  that  this  change  had  taken  place;  and 
it  was  a  melancholy  satisfaction  to  feel  that  with 
these  views,  if  it  had  been  permitted  him  to  continue 


88  THREE  HUNDRED 

with  his  wife,  he  should  have  put  her  on  an  equality 
with  himself. 

The  moment  his  wife  and  child  appeared  to  his 
mental  vision,  he  became  indifferent  to  what  was 
passing  around  him;  Edgar,  perceiving  that  he  was 
buried  in  his  own  thoughts,  proposed  that  they 
should  return  home  immediately,  and  they  accord- 
ingly passed  down  Broadway  to  the  Battery,  from 
which  place  they  intended  to  take  a  boat.  They 
reached  the  wharf — a  ship  had  just  arrived  from 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  with  a  fine  cargo.  The 
captain  and  crew  of  which  were  black. 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Hastings,  "  I  have  seen 

very  few  negroes;  what  has  become  of  them.  The 
question  of  slavery  was  a  very  painful  one  in  my 
time,  and  much  of  evil  was  apprehended  in  conse- 
quence of  a  premature  attempt  to  hasten  their 
emancipation.    I  dread  to  hear  how  it  eventuated." 

"  You  have  nothing  to  fear  on  that  score,"  said 
Edgar,  "  for  the  whole  thing  was  arranged  most 
satisfactorily  to  all  parties.  The  government  was 
rich  in  resources,  and  rich  in  land;  they  sold  the 
land,  and  with  the  money  thus  obtained,  and  a 
certain  portion  of  the  surplus  revenue  in  the  course 
of  ten  years,  they  not  only  indemnified  the  slave- 
holders for  their  loss  of  property,  but  actually  trans- 
planted the  whole  of  the  negro  population  to  Libe- 
ria, and  to  other  healthy  colonies.  The  southern 
planters  soon  found  that  their  lands  could  be  as 
easily  cultivated  by  the  labour  of  white  men,  as  by 
the  negroes." 

"  But  a  great  number  remained,  I  presume,  for  it 
would  not  have  been  humane  to  force  those  to  go 
who  preferred  to  stay." 

"  All  that  chose  to  settle  in  this  country  were  at 
liberty  to  do  so,  and  their  rights  and  privileges  were 
respected;   but  in   the  course  of  twenty  or  thirty 


YEARS  HEXCE.  89 

years,  their  descendants  gradually  went  over  to 
their  own  people,  who  by  this  time,  had  firmly 
established  themselves." 

"  Did  those  that  remained,  ever  intermarry  with 
the  white  population,  and  were  they  ever  admitted 
into  society  V 

"  As  soon  as  they  became  free,  as  soon  as  their 
bodies  were  unshackled,  their  minds  became  enlight- 
ened, and  as  their  education  advanced,  they  learned 
to  appreciate  themselves  properly.  They  saw  no 
advantage  in  intermarrying  with  the  whites;  on  the 
contrary,  they  learned,  by  close  investigation,  that 
the  negro  race  becomes  extinct  in  the  fourth  re- 
move, when  marriages  took  place  between  the  two 
colours.  It  seemed  to  be  their  pride  to  keep  them- 
selves a  distinct  people,  and  to  show  the  world  that 
their  organization  allowed  of  the  highest  grade  of 
mental  culture.  They  seemed  utterly  indifferent 
likewise  about  mixing  in  the  society  of  white  men, 
for  their  object  and  sole  aim  was  to  become  inde- 
pendent. Many  of  their  descendants  left  the  United 
States  with  handsome  fortunes.  You  could  not  in- 
sult a  black  man  more  highly  than  to  talk  of  their 
intermarrying  with  the  whites — they  scorn  it  much 
more  than  the  whites  did  in  your  time." 

"  Howr  do  they  treat  the  white  people  that  trade 
with  them  in  their  own  country  ?"' 

"How  '.  why  as  Christians — to  their  praise  be  it 
said,  they  never  retaliated.  The  few  excesses  they 
committed  whilst  they  were  degraded  by  slavery, 
was  entirely  owing  to  a  misdirection  of  their  ener- 
gies; but  the  moment  the  white  man  gave  up  his 
right  over  them,  that  moment  all  malignant  and 
hostile  feelings  i  jgappeared.  The  name  of  negro  is 
no  longer  a  term  of  reproach,  he  is  proud  of  it;  and 
he  smiles  when  he  reads  in  the  history  of  their  servi- 
tude, how  indignant  the  blacks  were  at  being  called 


90  THREE  HLWDRED 

by  that  title.  They  are  a  prosperous  and  happy 
people,  respected  by  all  nations,  for  their  trade  ex- 
tends over  the  whole  world.  They  would  never  have 
arrived  at  their  present  happy  condition  if  they  had 
sought  to  obtain  their  freedom  by  force ;  but  by 
waiting  a  few)- ears — for  the  best  men  of  their  co- 
lour saw  that  the  spirit  of  the  times  indicated  that 
their  day  of  freedom  was  near — they  were  released 
from  bondage  with  the  aid  and  good  wishes  of  the 
whole  country.  It  showed  their  strong  good  sense 
in  waiting  for  the  turn  of  the  tide  in  their  favour; 
it  proved  that  they  had  forethought,  and  deserved 
our  sympathies." 

"  I  am  glad  of  all  this,"  said  Hastings — "  and  the 
Indians — what  has  become  of  them,  are  they  still  a 
distinct  people  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  you  ask  that  question, — for  it  is  one 
on  which  I  do  not  like  to  converse — but 

'  The  Indians  have  departed — gone  is  their  hunting  ground, 
And  the  twanging  of  their  bow-string  is  a  forgotten  sound. 
Where  dwelleth  yesterday — and  where  is  echo's  cell? 
Where  hath  the  rainbow  vanished — there  doth  the  Indian 
dwell." 

"  When  our  own  minds  were  sufficiently  enlight- 
ened, when  our  hearts  were  sufficiently  inspired  by 
the  humane  principles  of  the  Christian  religion,  we 
emancipated  the  blacks.  What  demon  closed  up 
the  springs  of  tender  mercy  when  Indian  rights 
were  in  question  I  know  not  1 — but  I  must  not  speak 
of  it!"    " 

They  now  proceeded  homewards,  and  in  three 
hours — for  they  travelled  slowly,  that  they  might 
the  better  converse, — they  came  in  sight  of  the  low, 
stone  farm-house,  in  whieh  poor  Hastings  had  taken 
his  nap  of  three  hundred  years.  They  alighted  from 
the  car,  and  as  he  wished  to  indulge  himself  in 


YEARS  HENCE.  91 

taking  one  more  look  at  the  interior — for  the  build- 
ing was  soon  to  be  removed — his  young  relative  left 
him  to  apprize  his  family  of  their  arrival.  After 
casting  a  glance  at  Edgar,  he  entered  the  house, 
and  seating  himself  mechanically  in  the  old  arm 
chair,  he  leaned  his  head  back  in  mournful  reverie* 
Thoughts  innumerable,  and  of  every  variety  chased 
each  other  through  his  troubled  brain ;  his  early 
youth,  his  political  career,  his  wife  and  child,  all 
that  they  had  ever  been  to  him,  his  excellent  father, 
Valentine  Harley,  and  all  their  tender  relationship, 
mingled  confusedly  with  the  events  that  had  occur- 
red since  his  long  sleep — copy-rights — mad  dogs — 
bursting  of  steam  boilers — the  two  great  fires  in 
New-York — direct  tax — no  duties — post-offices— 
the  improved  condition  of  clergymen — no  more 
wars — no  bruising  of  children's  flesh — women's 
rights — Astor's  hotel — New-York  Mart  in  State- 
street — Negro  emancipation — all  passed  in  rapid 
review,  whilst  his  perplexities  to  know  what  became 
of  the  Indians  were  mixed  with  the  rest,  and  ran 
through  the  whole  scene.  At  the  same  time  that  all 
this  was  galloping  through  his  feverish  brain,  he 
caught  a  glance  of  his  young  relative,  and  in  his 
troubled  imagination,  it  appeared  that  it  was  not 
the  Edgar  Hastings  who  had  of  late  been  his  kind 
companion,  but  his  own  son.  He  was  conscious 
that  this  was  only  a  trick  of  the  fancy,  and  arose 
from  his  looking  so  earnestly  at  the  young  man  as 
he  left  him  at  the  door  of  the  house;  but  it  was  a 
pleasant  fancy,  and  he  indulged  in  it,  till  a  sudden 
crash  or  noise  of  some  kind  jarred  the  windows 
and  aroused  him.  He  was  sensible  that  footsteps 
approached,  and  he  concluded  it  was  his  young 
friend  who  had  returned  to  conduct  him  home. 

"  Edgar — Edgar  Hastings — my  son  is  it  thou — 
didst  thou  not  hear  the  cannon  of  the  Black  Hawk 
— hast  thou  been  sleeping?" 


92  THREE  HUNDRED  YEARS  HEXCE. 

"  Amazement !  Was  that  the  voice  of  his  father 
was  this  the  good  Valentine  Harley  that  now  as- 
sisted him  to  rise — and  who  were  those  approach- 
ing hjrn — was  it  his  darling  wife,  and  was  that 
smiling  boy  his  own  son,  his  little  Edgar!" 

"  You  have  been  asleep,  I  find,  my  dear  husband," 
said  the  gentle  Ophelia,  "  and  a  happy  sleep  it  has 
been  for  me,  for  us  all.  See,  here  is  a  letter  which 
makes  it  unnecessary  for  you  to  leave  home." 

"  And  is  this  reality  ?— do  I  indeed  hold  thee  to 
my  heart  once  more,  my  Ophelia — oh,  my  father, 
what  a  dream  !" 


THE   SURPRISE, 


Nothing  injures  a  man's  prospects  in  life  more 
than  a  bad  name.  My  father,  an  honest,  good  man, 
never  could  rise  above  it,  it  depressed  him  to  his 
dying  day.  His  name  was  Pan,  and  no  one  ever 
spoke  to  him  without  some  small  joke,  a  thing 
which  my  father's  sensitiveness  could  not  bear.  He 
was  a  gardener  and  sent  the  finest  of  vegetables  to 
market,  striving  to  excel  all  others — I  presume  that 
my  taste  for  horticulture  arose  from  this  circum- 
stance. 

Adjoining  our  garden  was  one  that  belonged  to 
a  man  by  the  name  of  Patrick  O'Brien;  he  like- 
wise raised  fruits  and  vegetables  for  sale,  and  there 
was  a  constant  strife  between  him  and  my  father 
as  to  who  should  get  the  pre-eminence  ;  but  it  so 
happened  that,  although  my  father  had  the  greatest 
abundance  of  large  and  fine  specimens,  yet  Patrick 
O'Brien  had  the  largest  for  the  monthly  exhibitions. 
My  father  was  not  of  a  jealous  nature,  yet  he  did 
envy  his  friend's  success;  and  there  is  no  knowing 
whether  a  breach  might  not  have  been  made  in 
their  long  tried  friendship  but  for  my  excellent  mo- 
ther. She  always  begged  my  father  to  try  and  try 
again;  and,  above  all,  to  try  for  the  yearly  fair. 
i 


94  THE  SURPRISE. 

My  father  did  persevere,  and  to  his  great  joy,  he 
got  three  premiums. 

"I  cannot  tell  how  it  has  happened,  wife,  said 
he  "  I  have  certainly  acquired  the  premiums,  but 
O'Brien's  tulips  were,  to  my  notion,  far  more  beau- 
tiful than  mine;  and  you  yourself  saw  how  much 
larger  his  sallad  was;  and  then  the  early  straw- 
berries— I  had  the  greatest  quantity,  but  his  were 

Mv'mother  certainly  was  glad  tiiat  my  father's 
spirit  was  elated,  but  she  was  of  a  timid,  nervous 
temperament,  and  she  could  not  bear  excitement 
of  any  kind.  She  therefore  trembled  very  much 
whilst  he  stood  talking  to  her,  nor  was  she  the  less 
agitated  when  Patrick  O'Brien  entered  the  room. 

«  Right  Mad  am  I,  neighbour  Pan,  that  you  have 
the  three  prizes  this  day,"  said  honest  Patrick,  "and 
you  must  trv  your  luck  again,  for  there  s  to  be  a 
areat  prize  given  next  year.  Early  peas,  my  boy. 
Arrah,  but  won't  I  try  for  them;  and  you  have  a 
fine  warm  spot  for  them  too.  But  mistress  Pan, 
for  what  are  you  not  wishing  your  husband  joy  his 
bright  day,  seeing  he  has  what  he  so  long  wished 

fnr7" 

«  Mr.  O'Brien,"  said  my  mother,  the  next  day, 
"  it  must  not  be  done  again;  my  husband  will  find 
it  out,  and  he  will  die  of  vexation.  Pray  discour- 
age him  from  making  the  attempt  next  spring,  for 
he  will  not  bear  a  disappointment  so  well  then  as 
he  has  hitherto  done.  Did  no  one  see  you  put  the 
large  strawberries  in  his  dish?" 

"No  never  a  creature,  and  I'm  wondering  you  11 
mention  a  thing  to  me  that  I  have  almost  forgotten. 
I  was  frightful,  though,  about  the  Parrot  tulip,  for 
one  of  the  gentlemen  would  keep  talking  about  it, 
and  I  had  to  keep  saying,  'It's  no  a  Parrot,  your 
honour,  it's  a  Bijou.' " 


THE  SURPRISE.  95 

The  fact  was,  that  this  kind  hearted  creature 
could  not  bear  to  see  my  father  so  crest-fallen,  and 
he  determined,  as  he  had  borne  off  so  many  pre- 
miums, to  let  his  friend  share  the  pleasure  with 
him.  He  slily  put  three  of  his  finest  tulips  in  the 
bunch  belonging  to  my  father,  and,  one  by  one,  he 
put  a  dozen  of  his  largest  strawberries  on  the  dish. 
He  told  all  this  to  my  poor  mother,  for  which  he 
was  very  sorry,  seeing  that  it  troubled  her  tender 
conscience ;  but,  as  her  husband  was  not  to  know 
of  the  trick,  she  endeavoured  to  forget  it  also. 
"  And  you,  too,  poor  Patrick,"  said  she,  "  you  feel 
badly  at  not  getting  the  prizes;  you  have  had  them 
so  long  that  it  must  be  hard  for  you  to  lose  them 
now — and  particularly  when,  by  rights,  you  should 
have  them." 

"  Oh,  honey,  never  you  mind  me ;  I  care  more 
to  name  your  little  baby,  when  it  comes;  and  if 
you'll  let  it  be  called  Patrick,  why  I  have  a  little 
matter  of  money  which  shall  all  be  his;  and  we 
will  make  the  boy  a  great  scholar.  I'll  bring  him 
up  like  a  gentleman." 

I  was  born  on  St.  Patrick's  day;  a  double  reason, 
as  the  poor  Irishman  said,  for  getting  the  name ; 
but  my  mother  cared  little  about  that;  all  she 
thought  of  was  leaving  me  to  the  mercy  of  heart- 
less strangers.  She  was  in  very  delicate  health, 
and  just  lived  long  enough  to  hear  me  call  her  mo- 
ther. Her  death  was  a  severe  blow  to  my  father 
and  my  poor  godfather,  for  she  was  the  peace- 
maker in  their  little  disputes,  and  the  consoler  in  all 
their  little  troubles  and  miscarriages,  of  which  a 
gardener,  you  know,  has  many.  In  less  than  three 
months  I  lost  my  father  also;  and  thus  I  became 
entirely  thrown  on  the  care  of  this  good  and  ho- 
nest Irishman. 

As  my  father  was  liberal  and  spirited,  it  cannot 
be  supposed  that  he  had,  in  a  few  short  years,  made 


96  THE  SURPRISE. 

much  money;  when  his  effects  were  sold,  and 
every  thing  converted  into  money,  there  only  re- 
mained about  five  hundred  dollars.  A  far  greater 
sum,  as  Patrick  said,  than  he  expected  to  realize; 
but  nothing  at  all  equal  to  what  was  necessary. 
He  was  a  very  sanguine  creature,  and  always  had 
a  hope  that  the  next  year  would  do  wonders;  so 
putting  the  money  thus  obtained  from  my  father's 
effects  into  safe  hands,  he  determined  on  providing 
for  me  himself. 

Never  was  there  a  father  so  proud  of  a  child  as 
Patrick  was  of  his  little  godson;  and  never  did  a 
child  fare  better,  for  three  years,  than  I  did.  He 
dressed  me  in  the  finest  clothes;  and  I  was  never 
without  a  lap  full  of  toys  ;  in  fact,  he  could  not  re- 
sist my  entreaties  for  more  when  we  passed  a  toy 
shop.  He  often  neglected  his  w?ork  to  take  me 
either  a  riding  or  walking  with  him ;  and  even  when 
toiling  in  the  garden,  he  was  uneasy  unless  I  was 
running  around  him.  But,  alas,  this  state  of  things 
was  not  to  last  long;  he  missed  my  father's  excel- 
lent example  and  my  mother's  gentle  hints,  so  he 
went  on  as  if  his  income  was  never  to  be  dimi- 
nished, and  as  if  he  had  thousands  at  his  command. 

Like  all  weak  people,  the  moment  his  affairs  be- 
came embarrassed,  he  gave  up  all  endeavours  at 
retrieving  them;  he  ended  by  neglecting  every 
thing;  and  when  my  nurse  presented  the  quarterly 
account  for  my  board,  poor  Patrick  had  to  sell  a 
valuable  watch  to  meet  the  demand.  My  little 
property  was  in  the  Savings  Bank,  and,  hitherto, 
untouched;  but  much  as  it  was  against  his  inclina- 
tion— and,  oh,  how  sore  a  thing  it  was — he  was 
compelled  to  take  up  the  year's  interest,  which  he 
fondly  hoped  to  leave  with  the  principal,  to  pay  the 
woman  for  my  next  quarter. 

Thus  it  went  from  bad  to  worse,  until  it  came  to 
utter  ruin;  and  Patrick  had  sunk  so  low  in  public 


THE  SURPRISE.  97 

esteem,  that  he  could  not  obtain  even  the  ordinary 
wages  of  a  common  gardener.  He  seemed  to  have 
lost  bis  skill  with  his  pride,  and  all  was  aggravated 
by  the  thought  of  being  unable  to  provide  for  me 
as  he  once  intended  to  do.  He  used  to  hug  me  to 
him  and  weep  over  me,  calling  on  my  father,  but 
most  frequently  on  my  mother,  to  scorn  him  and 
hate  him  for  breaking  his  promise,  which  was  to 
educate  me,  and  give  me  a  gentlemanly  trade.  He 
was  so  true  to  his  trust,  however,  that  he  never 
Avould  touch. my  little  patrimony;  he  only  grieved 
too  much,  as  I  observed,  at  having  to  draw  upon 
the  interest,  little  as  it  was.  But  five  shillings  a 
week  was  not  a  sum  sufficient  to  satisfy  my  nurse. 
She  h'ad  taken  care  of  me  for  three  years,  and  had 
been  well  paid  by  my  godfather,  who  likewise 
made  her  several  valuable  presents;  but  when  it 
came  to  the  shillings,  she  at  once  told  Patrick,  who 
was  thunderstruck  at  her  hardness  of  heart,  that 
he  must  get  another  place  for  the  little  spoilt  boy; 
that  she  found  him  so  troublesome  she  could  keep 
him  no  longer. 

I  shall  not  tell  of  the  change  that  came  over  me, 
nor  the  resistance  I  made  to  every  new  face,  for  I 
was  turned  over  to  a  dozen  strangers  in  the  course 
of  a  year.  Nor  shall  I  tell  of  poor  Patrick's  misery 
at  seeing  my  altered  looks  and  spirits.  He  rallied 
a  little  and  went  in  a  gentleman's  service  as  under 
gardener,  that  he  might  not  only  be  near  me,  but 
comfort  my  little  heart,  which  was  breaking  with 
ill  usage  and  neglect.  Small  as  the  sum  was,  which 
Patrick  gave  for  my  board,  there  were  miserable 
creatures  who  offered  to  take  me  for  less,  so  that 
one  woman,  with  whom  I  lived,  actually  farmed 
rne  out,  keeping  two  shillings  a  week  out  of  the 
scanty  allowance.  No  one  can  have  an  idea  how 
poor  little  orphans  are  abused  when  there  are  no 
kind  friends  to  interest  themselves  for  them. 
i  2 


98  THE  SURPRISE. 

I  was  a  very  unprepossessing  child,  neither  good 
looking  nor  pleasant  tempered;  not  that  I  was 
really  ill-tempered,  but  that  ill  usage  had  stupified 
me.  I  never  entered  into  play  with  the  children 
of  my  own  age,  nor  did  I  seek  the  amusements  that 
were  even  within  my  reach.  I  loved  to  be  alone,  to 
lie  under  a  tree  near  a  brook,  listening  to  the  bab- 
bling and  murmuring  of  the  waters,  and  fancying 
that  I  heard  my  mother  talking  to  me.  Little  as  I 
was,  I  used  to  frame  long  conversations  with  her, 
and  they  had  the  effect  of  soothing  me.  Her  gentle 
spirit  was  for  ever  present,  and  constantly  encour- 
aging me  to  bear  all,  and  suffer  in  silence,  and  that 
when  I  was  a  man  1  should  be  rewarded.  I  bless 
the  good  Irishman's  memory  for  having  so  early 
and  so  constantly  spoken  of  my  parents;  particu- 
larly of  my  mother. 

A  man  finds  he  cannot  make  his  way  in  the 
world  without  honesty  and  industry,  so  that,  al- 
though his  father's  example  may  do  much,  he  has 
to  depend  upon  his  own  exertions;  he  must  work, 
he  must  be  honest,  or  he  cannot  attain  to  any  envia- 
ble rank.  But  the  tender  soothings  of  a  mother, 
her  sympathy,  her  devotedness,  her  forgiving  tem- 
per— all  this  sinks  deep  in  a  child's  heart;  and  let 
him  wander  ever  so  wide,  let  him  err  or  let  him 
lead  a  life  of  virtue,  the  remembrance  of  all  this 
comes  like  a  holy  calm  over  his  heart,  and  he  weeps 
that  he  has  offended  her,  or  he  rejoices  that  he  has 
listened  to  her  disinterested,  gentle  admonition. 

When  I  reached  the  age  of  eight  years  1  was 
taught  to  read,  and  the  eagerness  with  which  I  pro- 
ceeded, mastering  every  ditHculty,  and  overcoming 
every  impediment  from  cold,  hunger  and  chilblain, 
might  have  shown  to  an  observer  how  suitable  this 
occupation  was  to  my  character.  Poor  Patrick 
used  to  boast  of  my  acquirements  to  every  one  who 


THE  SURPRISE-  99 

would  listen;  and  every  fresh  book  that  I  read 
through,  gave  him  visions  of  my  future  glory. 

No  one  can  tell  how  the  poor  fellow  pinched  him- 
self to  give  me  this  scanty  education,  but  hard  ne- 
cessity had  taught  me  to  think;  I  was  compelled  to 
make  use  of  my  judgment,  young  as  I  was;  and, 
knowing  that  he  had  the  sum  of  five  hundred  dol- 
lars in  his  possession,  for  my  use,  I  tried  to  prevail 
on  him  to  draw  out  a  fifth  part  of  it  for  the  pur- 
pose of  paying  a  better  board,  and  getting  me  a 
better  teacher.  If  any  one  could  have  seen  this 
poor  man  as  I  saw  him  at  that  time,  thin,  bowed 
down  by  poverty  and  neglect,  ragged  and  with 
scarcely  a  home,  they  would  have  wondered  that 
his  honesty  could  have  held  out  as  it  did  when  he 
had  what  might  be  considered  as  so  large  a  sum 
within  his  power.  He  not  only  did  not  touch  a 
penny  himself,  but  he  would  not  take  a  cent  of  it 
from  the  principal.  He  distrusted  his  own  judg- 
ment, and  he  distrusted  mine,  for  I  was  such  a  mere 
child;  yet  his  anxiety  to  give  me  an  education  was 
still  uppermost,  and  he  wavered  for  a  long  time 
about  adopting  the  only  means  of  accomplishing  it. 

He  had  been  digging  post  holes,  one  day,  for  a 
gentleman,  and  when  his  task  was  finished,  he  be- 
gan to  speak  of  the  books  which  he  saw  lying  about 
— it  was  a  printing  office — and,  as  was  most  natu- 
ral to  him,  he  spoke  of  me.  He  told  the  printer  of 
his  anxieties  and  his  desire  that  I  should  have  a 
good  education,  and  finally  he  spoke  of  my  pro- 
posal respecting  the  money.  The  printer  told  Pat- 
rick, that  it  was  very  good  advice,  and  he  had  bet- 
ter take  it;  for  if  his  object  was  to  educate  me, 
there  was  no  other  way  but  this  of  effecting  it,  un- 
less he  sent  me  to  a  charity  school.  The  blood 
mounted  in  the  poor  fellow's  cheeks  at  this  sugges- 
tion, and  he  told  me  that  he  had  great  difficulty  in 


100  THE  SURPRISE. 

commanding  his  temper,  but  his  love  for  me  con- 
quered. 

As  soon  as  he  could  swallow  the  affront — an  af- 
front, he  said,  to  my  father,  and  to  my  angel  of  a 
mother;  for  he,  too,  never  separated  my  feelings 
from  their's — he  begged  the  printer  to  let  him  bring 
me  there  and  see  how  far  1  had  advanced  in  my 
learning;  but  the  man  did  not  seem  disposed  to 
grant  this  favour.  Bring  the  boy  to  me  one  year 
from  this,  and  then  I  shall  be  better  able  to  judge, 
said  he;  mean  time,  do  you  see  that  he  is  placed 
with  a  good  teacher;  one  that  will  keep  him  to  his 
studies. 

With  a  heavy  heart,  Patrick  obeyed  him,  and  I 
thus  obtained  a  knowledge  of  reading,  writing  and 
arithmetic;  but  he  seemed  to  be  failing  fast;  every 
time  he  came  to  see  me  he  appeared  weaker,  and 
was  still  more  wretchedly  clad,  and  I  could  devise 
no  plan  for  his  comfort.  He  never  complained  of 
his  poverty,  but  of  his  laziness;  and  his  constant 
exhortations  were,  "  Patrick,  my  boy,  be  industri- 
ous; never  allow  of  an  idle  moment;  give  over 
lying  under  the  trees,  and  do  not  saunter  about 
when  your  lessons  are  over — look  at  me;  I  am  in 
rags  and  despised  by  every  body  because  I  have 
been  an  idler." 

At  the  end  of  the  year,  in  as  good  a  suit  of  clothes 
as  my  poor  godfather  could  manage  to  procure  for 
me,  I  was  taken  to  the  printer.  He  cast  a  look  at 
me  as  he  stood  at.  his  desk  writing,  and  then  told 
us  to  take  a  seat.  His  cold  manner  struck  a  chill 
through  my  heart,  and  I  crowded  myself  on  Pat- 
rick's chair  that  I  might  feel  the  warmth  of  his 
kindness.  There  we  sat,  speechless,  for  half  an 
hour,  until  the  letters  were  finished  and  despatched, 
and  then  the  man  turned  his  head  again  and  gave 
another  look. 

"  Will  you  be  for  speaking  to  the  boy  touching 


THE  SURPRISE.  101 

his  learning,  your  honour?"  said  honest  Patrick, 
his  feelings  hurt  by  this  coldness  of  manner;  "or 
shall  we  come  some  other  time?" 

"I  have  no  time  to  question  him  now,"  said  the 
printer,  "  but  if  he  can  read  and  write — here,  my 
boy,  write  your  name  on  this  leaf — Patrick  Pan! 
hem — Pan,  is  it?" 

"  Yes,  your  honour,"  said  the  indignant  Irish- 
man, "  and  it  was  an  honest  man  that  bore  it,  and 
gived  it  to  him,  and  I  trust  he'll  never  disgrace  it." 

"  I  trust  so  too,"  said  the  man.  "He  writes  le- 
gibly, and  if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do  with 
him,  he  may  have  his  food  and  clothing  for  the  few 
errands  he  can  do." 

"And  Patrick,  dear,"  said  O'Brien,  "will  you  be 
liking  this  employment, sure  my  son  it's  a  good  berth, 
though  a  mean  one,  to  what  I  meant  to  give  you; 
but  you'll  he  industrious  and  mind  what's  told  you, 
and  PI!  still  be  looking  after  you,  and  you'll  have 
plenty  of  books,  dear,  for  they  are  not  scarce 
here." 

"  The  boy  will  have  but  little  chance  of  meddling 
with  books,"  said  the  printer,  "it  will  be  time 
enough  when  he  is  older.  Is  he  to  stay  now,  or  do 
you  wish  him  to  come  next  week?  he  must  be  ap- 
prenticed to  me,  you  recollect." 

Smothering  and  choking  was  the  poor  fellow  for 
a  minute  or  two;  lie  knew  that  the  hundred  dollars 
was  all  gone,  and  that  my  last  quarter  had  just 
ended.  He  knew  it  was  entirely  out  of  his  power  to 
assist  me  any  further,  so  with  a  mighty  effort  he 
made  the  sacrifice — he  transferred   me  to  another. 

It  was  but  the  work  of  half  an  hour,  and  I  be- 
came this  man's  property:  for  twelve  years  he  was 
to  rule  my  destiny.  I  looked  up  in  his  face  whilst 
he  was  speaking,  and  I  saw  nothing  to  cheer  me; 
his  countenance  was  only  expressive  of  care  and 
deep  thought.     I  cast  another  glance  at  him  when 


102 


THE  SURPRISE. 


my  indentures  were  signed,  and  there  was  no 
change.  Poor  Patrick  never  thought  of  his  looks; 
he  was  only  alive  to  the  misery  of  having  consign- 
ed me  to  another ;  of  having  no  longer  any  power 
or  control  over  my  comforts  and  enjoyments. 

When  all  was  over,  and  the  printer  had  left  us 
together,  the  poor  man  burst  into  tears,  bewailing 
his  cruel  fate  that  would  not  let  him  alone,  as  he 
said,  that  he  might  perform  his  promise  of  giving 
me  a  good  education.  "  I  wanted  to  be  industri- 
ous," said  he,  "  but  something  always  pulled  me 
back  and  pointed  to  a  toy  or  a  hobby-horse,  or  a 
fine  suit  of  clothes,  or  a  ride,  or  a  pleasant  walk,  and 
so  all  these  things  being  more  agreeable  to  my  na- 
ture, I  left  my  garden  for  the  pleasure  of  pleasing 
you,  my  poor  boy ;  and  now  you  must  work  for 
this  nigger,  who  won't  let  you  touch  one  of  his  books 
even.  But  remember  your  mother,  Patrick,  what- 
ever becomes  of  you;  be  honest,  and  she  will  be 
looking  down  upon  you,  my  jewel ;  and  that  will 
encourage  you;  and  I  shall  be  looking  after  you 
too,  dear,  for  all  I  am — for  all  I  am — in  the  poor- 
house.  Don't  cry,  poor  fellow,  I  did  not  mean  to 
tell  you ;  but  where's  the  use  of  being  proud  now, 
when  you  can't  even  get  a  book  to  read,  but  must 
just  be  an  errand  boy  and  be  pushed  about  any 
how,  and  it  all  comes  of  my  laziness." 

"  Oh  no,  Patrick,  you  have  done  every  thing  for 
me,"  said  I,  "  and  only  keep  a  good  heart  for 
twelve  years,  and  then  I  shall  have  a  trade,  and  I 
can  make  you  happy  and  comfortable;  but  you 
must  come  and  see  me  every  day,  for  I  shall  miss 
you  so  much;  and  there  is  such  a  difference  be- 
tween Mr.  Bartlett  and  you.  It  will  kill  me  if  you 
don't  come  every  day." 

"  Well,  child,  it  is  idle  to  stand  here  making  you 
more  unhappy  than  you  need  be ;  I  will  come  as 
often  as  I  can;  but  I  shall  just  walk  up  and  down 


THE  SURPRISE.  103 

the  alley,  there,  till  you  get  sight  of  me,  for  I'll  not 
be  after  knocking  at  the  door  and  shaming  you  be- 
fore your  new  acquaintances,  and  I  all  in  these  old 
rags." 

So  we  parted  with  many  a  last  look  and  last 
speech;  I  following  him,  poor,  ragged,  broken  down 
old  creature  as  he  was,  as  far  as  my  eye  could  see 
him,  and  then  sat  on  the  stairs  in  the  hall  and  cried 
myself  asleep ;  nor  did  I  awake  till  the  bell  rang  for 
dinner.  Mr.  Bartlett  pointed  to  a  little  room,  as  he 
passed  me  en  coming  down  stairs,  telling  me  to  go 
there  and  take  my  seat  at  the  table  as  soon  as  the 
cook  told  me  that  the  dinner  was  ready.  The  cook 
cast  a  surly  glance  at  me,  and  so  did  the  chamber- 
maid, muttering  in  audible  whispers  that  "here 
was  more  trouble;  and  wondering  what  could  pos- 
sess Mr.  Bartlett  to  bring  such  a  mere  child  in  the 
house,  one  not  big  enough  to  fetch  a  pail  of  water." 

In  the  afternoon  I  was  allowed  to  lounge  about 
the  room,  no  one  taking  the  least  notice  of  me,  till 
the  foreman  said,  "Here  is  a  little  errand  boy,  one 
of  the  elder  apprentices  must  take  him  out  when  he 
goes  with  books  and  papers,  that  he  may  learn  to 
find  his  way."  Then  they  all  cast  a  look  at  me,  and 
seeing  my  tiny  size,  and  how  awkward  and  poorly 
clad  I  was,  they  made  themselves  very  merry  at 
my  expense.  But  small  and  contemptible  as  I  ap- 
peared, they  did  not  think  me  too  small  nor  too 
mean  for  their  services.  I  was  made  to  toil  from 
morning  till  night,  scarcely  sitting  down  to  my  im- 
poverished meals;  for  I  always  had  to  wait  till  the 
elder  boys  had  finished,  and  I  was  scarcely  seated 
before  I  was  wanted.  By  degrees  I  lost  all  pride 
about  my  outward  appearance.  From  my  infancy 
I  was  particularly  careful  to  keep  rny  face  and 
hands  clean ;  but  now  that  I  was  driven  about  from 
place  to  place  I  had  no  time.  All  I  could  do  was 
to  dip  my  hands  and  face  hastily  in  a  basin,  or  a 


104  THE  SURPRISE. 

pail,  or  more  commonly,  under  the  pump,  and  either 
let  the  water  dry  off*,  or  else  use  a  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. My  master  never  looked  after  me,  nor 
inquired  about  me,  that  I  ever  heard,  so  that  I  was 
as  much  neglected  as  if  I  was  among  wild  beasts — 
is  not  this  the  case  with  the  most  of  apprentices'? 
It  was  a  week,  and  more,  before  1  had  a  room  to 
sleep  in;  and  I  was  forced  to  lie  about  on  floors,  or 
on  benches,  wherever  my  mattress  was  to  be  found. 
At  length,  by  the  removal  of  a  young  man,  I  was 
put  up  in  a  small  garret  room,  and  in  this  hole  I 
slept  lor  twelve  years.  There  was  one  thing,  how- 
ever, which  made  it  endurable;  and  this  was,  that 
the  branches  of  a  large  buttonwood  tree  reached 
up  to  the  window  and  sheltered  it  from  the  after- 
noon sun;  but  for  this  I  should  have  suffered  from 
the  heat.  Many  and  many  an  evening  have  I  been 
soothed  by  the  gentle  rustling  of  the  leaves,  as  the 
mild  breeze  passed  over  them.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
spirii  of  my  mother  was  there,  and  I  would  listen 
and  fancy  that  I  heard  her  whispering  to  me,  and 
then  I  would  shut  my  eyes  and  let  the  cool  soft 
air  fall  on  my  cheek,  and  say  to  myself,  Perhaps  it 
is  the  breath  of  my  mother.  To  this  day,  now  that 
I  am  a  man,  I  still  seem  to  hear  that  ever-to-be- 
loved voice  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  when  the 
summer  wind  murmurs  through  the  foliage.  I  used, 
at  that  forlorn  period  of  my  existence,  to  give  my- 
self up  to  these  delusions  till  my  heart  has  fairly 
throbbed  with  emotion. 

I  looked  around  for  something  to  love,  but  no 
one  ever  dreamed  of  me,  all  were  engaged  in  their 
business,  or  when  the  day  closed,  in  their  own 
amusement;  all  that  I  could  draw  to  me  was  a 
poor  singed  cat,  which  I  coaxed  into  my  garret- 
room,  and  domesticated  there.  I  rescued  her  from 
the  gripe  of  the  cook's  son,  a  hard-hearted  little 


THE  SURPRISE.  105 

tyrant,  who  took  great  pleasure  in  tormenting  ani- 
mals. 

But  my  unfortunate  name — that,  too,  added  to 
my  miseries.  I  told  you  it  was  Pan.  I  was  called 
Pat  from  the  first;  but  when  they  found  out  my  fa- 
ther's name,  it  was  an  easy  thing  to  call  me  Patty 
Pan;  and  by  this  name  I  went  for  years.  Oh,  how 
hard  it  was  to  my  sensitive  spirit  to  hear  my  fa- 
ther's— my  mother's  name  turned  into  ridicule  by 
these  inconsiderate  and  callous  people. 

Every  Sunday  poor  Patrick  met  me  in  one  of  the 
public  squares,  and  there  we  would  talk  together, 
and  he  would  tell  me  anecdote  after  anecdote  of  my 
parents  and  their  family,  always  making  them  out 
grandees  at  home.  Both  my  father  and  mother 
were  from  Scotland,  and  I  learned  that  my  mother 
had  displeased  her  only  brother  by  her  marriage, 
and  that  his  illnatured  conduct  towards  her  caused 
them  to  come  to  America. 

"  You  are  come  of  a  good  stock,  Patrick,  dear," 
said  he  to  me,  when  I  was  about  fourteen  years  old, 
"  barring  that  your  uncle  was  such  a  nigger.  I 
have  written  twice  to  him,  my  jewel,  and  its  never 
an  answer  I've  got,  so  I'll  trouble  him  no  more, 
only  I'll  just  be  for  telling  Mr.  Bartlett  who  you 
are;  and  in  case  your  uncle  should  ever  deign  to 
inquire  about  you,  he  can  answer  for  you.  I've 
kept  all  safe,  honey ;  here  in  this  old  tobacco-box 
is  the  certificates  of  your  parents'  marriage,  and  of 
your  birth,  and,  oh,  wo's  me,  of  their  death  too; 
and  here  is  an  account  of  your  money  in  the  savings 
bank,  and  not  a  penny  has  been  touched  since  you 
began  your  trade,  so  that  the  five  hundred  dollars 
are  all  whole  again,  and  something  over." 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  entreated  the  poor  fellow  to 
take  the  interest  and  spend  it  on  himself;  he  would 
not  do  it ;  and  from  seeing  his  self-denial  I  found  it 
impossible  to  make  use  of  it  myself,  although  I  was 

K 


106 


THE  SURPRISE. 


sadly  in  want  of  comforts.  Often  and  often  would 
the  old  man  question  me  as  to  my  usage  at  the  print- 
ing office ;  but  I  could  not  bear  to  tell  him  how  ut- 
terly neglected  I  was;  it  would  have  killed  him. 
Every  time  I  saw  him  he  appeared  weaker  and 
weaker,  and  at  length  his  eye-sight  failed,  and  it 
was  with  great  difficulty  that  he  could  grope  his 
way  to  our  accustomed  haunts.  He  never  would 
allow  me  to  come  to  the  alms-house,  not  so  much 
as  to  meet  him  at  the  door  or  near  it ;  but  I  bribed 
a  poor  man  to  lead  him  to  the  place  and  call  for 
him  again ;  this  I  was  enabled  to  do  from  the  few 
shillings  that  I  received  from  Mr.  Bartlett  on  the 
new  year's  day  and  the  fourth  of  July. 

My  master  called  me  to  him,  one  morning,  with 
some  little  show  of  sympathy  ;  he  said  that  Patrick 
O'Brien  was  very  ill,  and  that  it  was  doubtful  whe- 
ther he  would  live  till  night;  that  he  had  been  to 
the  alms-house  and  was  satisfied  that  the  poor  man 
was  properly  treated.  I  begged  to  go  to  him,  but 
Mr.  Bartlett  said  that  Patrick  had  desired  that  I 
should  not,  and  that  I  should  not  follow  him  to  the 
grave  ;  but,  added  he,  on  seeing  my  grief,  if  you 
really  desire  to  go,  I  will  send  you  there  or  go  with 
you  myself. 

I  was  so  astonished  at  this  unexpected  kindness, 
that  my  tears  dried  up  in  an  instant,  and  I  blessed 
and  blessed  him  over  and  over  again — not  by 
speech,  for  I  was  unfit  for  it,  but  mentally.  My 
master  told  me  to  go  to  my  room  and  remain  there 
till  he  sent  for  me,  bidding  me  say  nothing  to  any 
one  either  respecting  my  poor  god-father  or  what 
had  recently  occurred.  He  need  not  have  enjoined 
this  on  me;  no  one  had  ever  thought  it  worth  while 
to  inquire  whence  I  came,  or  to  whom  I  belonged. 
The  general  opinion  was,  that  I  was  a  poor,  spirit- 
less, melancholy  creature. 

The  last  link  was  broken;  I  followed  my  only 


THE  SURPRISE.  107 

friend  to  the  grave,  my  master  having  the  humanity 
to  take  me  in  a  carriage  to  the  funeral ;  and  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  one  of  the  first  acts  of  my  life, 
when  I  had  the  power  to  do  it,  was  to  put  a  stone 
at  the  head  of  poor  O'Brien's  grave. 

But  heaven  opened  one  source  of  pleasure  to  the 
poor  orphan's  heart.  If  the  living  denied  me  their 
sympathy,  the  dead  did  not;  I  became  fond  of  read- 
ing ;  and  all  at  once,  as  it  were,  a  flood  of  light 
and  knowledge  entered  my  whole  soul.  To  indulge 
myself  in  (his  newly  found  pleasure  was  scarcely 
possible,  for  my  labours  seemed  to  increase  as  I 
grew  older.  Indeed  there  were  greater  difficulties 
in  the  way  now  than  there  would  have  been  at  first, 
for  then  I  was  a  mere  cipher,  and  was  only  used 
as  a  convenience.  But  there  were  certain  things 
going  on  which  made  it  necessary  that  there  should 
be  no  spies  or  tell-tales  about;  and  as  I  would  not 
join  the  young  men  in  their  irregularities,  they 
thought  I  meant  to  ingratiate  myself  with  Mr.  Bart- 
lett  by  exposing  them.  As  the  follies  they  commit- 
ted were  not  injurious  to  our  master's  interest,  I  had 
no  intention  of  exposing  them,  for  he  was  a  hard 
man  and  showed  them  but  few  favours.  My  com- 
panions, however,  became  shy  of  me,  and  I  found 
that  they  even  preferred  to  do  without  my  assistance 
than  to  have  me  near  them  ;  but  I  held  fast  by  my 
integrity;  and  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  I  was  true  to  my  employer's  interests,  never 
injuring  them  myself  nor  suffering  others  to  do  it. 

My  only  chance  of  reading  was  after  supper;  I 
then  went  to  my  room,  and  there  I  sat,  devouring 
book  after  book,  night  after  night,  by  the  light  of  my 
little  lamp,  with  my  old  cat,  either  on  my  lap  or  on 
my  bed,  the  only  living  thing  that  claimed  any  com- 
panionship with  me.  When  I  had  exhausted  the 
books  in  the  house,  I  hired  others  at  the  libraries; 
and  thus  I  went  on,  my  appetite  increasing  as  I  pro- 


108  THE  SURPRISE. 

ceeded ;  and  my  eighteenth  year  found  me  exactly 
in  the  same  round  of  duty,  but  with  a  mind  that 
seemed  almost  bursting  its  bounds  with  the  know- 
ledge that  I  had  thus  crammed  into  it. 

Just  at  this  period,  my  uncle,  that  cruel  man,  of 
whom  poor  O'Brien  had  so  often  to  speak,  wrote  to 
Mr.  Bartlett  concerning  me.  He  said  that,  if  I 
would  take  the  name  of  Parr  he  would  make  over 
to  me  a  tract  of  land  which  he  owned  in  Virginia, 
and  that  if  money  were  necessary,  towards  pro- 
curing this  change  of  name,  I  might  draw  on  a 
certain  firm  in  New  York  to  the  amount  of  two 
hundred  dollars.  I  was  very  indignant  at  first,  but 
Mr.  Bartlett  seemed  resolute  in  accomplishing  the 
thing,  and  I  at  length  reluctantly  consented  to  give 
up  the  name.  In  the  course  of  a  year,  the  whole 
was  arranged.  I  adopted  the  name  of  Parr,  and 
Mr.  Bartlett,  thinking  it  better  to  sell  the  land  at  a 
moderate  price  than  to  let  it  lie  unproductive,  found 
a  purchaser  for  it,  and  the  money — twelve  hun- 
dred dollars — was  judiciously  placed  out  at  good 
interest. 

My  fellow-apprentices  only  laughed  amongst 
themselves  when  Mr.  Bartlett  told  them  that  in  fu- 
ture I  was  to  be  called  by  another  name ;  but  it 
soon  passed  out  of  their  thoughts,  and  I  was  again 
left  to  my  own  solitude  and  insignificance. 

But  the  same  objections  did  not  exist  with  re- 
spect to  the  income  I  derived  from  my  uncle's 
bounty.  I  felt  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  spending  it;  and 
the  first  things  I  purchased  was  a  looking-glass  and 
other  little  comforts  for  my  forlorn  garret-room. 
Oh,  the  luxury  of  a  large  wash  basin,  a  white  towel 
and  pleasant  soap;  and  the  infinitely  greater  luxury 
of  giving  a  few  shillings  to  the  poor  objects  who  soli- 
cited charity.  The  pride  of  my  childhood  returned, 
and  I  once  more  took  care  of  my  dress  and  my 
outward  appearance.     I  no  longer  went  slouching 


THE  SURPRISE.  109 

and  careless  along,  inattentive  to  what  was  passing, 
but  stopped  to  let  my  eye  rest  on  the  shop  windows ; 
suffering  myself  to  take  pleasure  in  the  beauty  and 
brightness  that  was  spread  out  around  me — such  a 
difference  is  there  between  the  pennyless  and 
crushed  spirit  and  the  one  who  has  wealth  at  com- 
mand. 

But  there  was  still  a  craving  at  the  heart,  which 
money  could  not  satisfy — I  wanted  a  home,  kind 
fellowship,  a  brother,  a  sister,  something  near  and 
dear,  that  I  could  call  my  own.  In  my  Sunday 
walks  I  used  to  look  at  the  cheerful  and  happy 
young  people  that  passed  me,  selecting  first  one  and 
then  the  other  as  a  companion,  and  held  mental 
conversation  with  them,  trying  in  this  way  to  cheat 
myself  into  the  belief  that  I  was  of  consequence  to 
some  one  being.  Oh,  if  any  one  could  have  guess- 
ed at  the  deep  feeling  which  lay  hidden  under  my 
cold  manner:  if  they  could  but  have  known  whence 
arose  the  nervous  tremblings  which  assailed  me 
when  1  performed  any  little  friendly  office  for 
strangers! 

As  to  Mr.  Bartlelt,  he  never  varied  his  treatment 
of  the  work-people  ;  they  were  all  kept  at  the  same 
distance;  he  pair!  them  their  wages  and  exacled 
obedience  in  return  ;  and  when  the  rules  were  neg- 
lected, or  when  his  commands  were  disobeyed,  he 
dismissed  the  offender  at  once,  without  remark  or 
dispute.  Of  all  that  came  and  went,  1  was  the  only 
one  that  served  out  my  apprenticeship.  Out  of 
fourteen  men  and  boys,  when  I  left  him,  there  was 
not  one  that  had  been  with  him  four  years.  But 
this  gave  me  no  advantages.  1  was  no  nearer  his 
confidence  than  I  was  when  I  entered  his  service. 
I  was  advanced  in  the  regular  way,  from  step  to 
step,  until  I  had  arrived  at  the  highest  point;  and  I 
did  not  consider  myself  as  master  of  the  trade  until 
my  time  was  expired.     He  could  not  prevent  me 

K  2 


1 10  I  he  SURPRISE. 

from  feeling  gratitude  towards  him,  for  I  recollect- 
ed his  kindness  in  going  with  me  to  poor  O'Bri- 
en's grave,  and  in  his  care  and  attention  to  my  in- 
terests respecting  the  change  of  name  and  the  in- 
vestment of  the  money  for  the  Virginia  land ;  but 
he  did  not  require  sympathy,  and  he  never  gave  it 
to  others. 

My  last  act  of  duty  was  to  correct  the  proofs  of 
a  very  valuable  work,  requiring  a  knowledge  of  the 
subject  matter,  almost  equal  to  that  of  the  author. 
Several  had  undertaken  it,  but  made  so  many  blun- 
ders that  the  poor  author  was  in  despair.  Mr. 
Bartlett  was  very  much  mortified,  and  determined 
to  put  back  the  work  until  he  could  procure  a 
competent  person  to  read  the  proofs.  Having  been 
fond  of  that  particular  branch  of  study — Vegeta- 
ble Physiology — I  knew  that  I  could  accomplish 
the  task;  so  I  stepped  into  the  office  and  told  Mr. 
Bartlett  that  if  he  had  no  objection  I  would  read 
the  proofs,  for  having  always  had  access  to  works 
of  the  kind,  the  terms  made  use  of  were  quite  fa- 
miliar. He  looked  at  me  with  astonishment,  having, 
like  the  rest  of  the  house,  always  considered  me  as 
a  mere  automaton;  a  faithful  drudge,  who  did 
every  thing  mechanically.  He  put  the  work  into 
my  hands,  and  I  laboured  at  it  with  care  and  dili- 
gence, so  that  the  work  came  out  without  a  single 
erratum.  Mr.  Bartlett  said,  "This  is  well  done, 
Mr.  Parr,  excellent,  and  you  deserve  all  our  thanks; 
the  author  has  sent  you  his  grateful  thanks  and  this 
little  box;  it  contains  a  compound  microscope.  I 
have  the  pleasure,  likewise,  of  giving  you  a  copy 
of  the  work." 

But  praise  from  him,  respect  from  my  fellow 
labourers,  came  too  late  to  satisfy  me ;  the  time 
was  approaching  when  I  should  be  free,  when  I 
could  at  intervals  relieve  both  mind  and  body  from 
this   unnatural   monotonv,  and   roam  about  in  the 


THE  SURPRISE.  Ill 

country  unrestrained.  I  hoped  likewise  to  meet 
with  some  congenial  mind  to  whom  I  could  pour 
out  my  feelings  and  thoughts ;  for  to  this  one  point 
all  my  wishes  turned;  my  whole  soul  was  so  swal- 
lowed up  with  this  one  sentiment  that  every  other 
passion — wealth,  fame,  and  all,  were  but  things 
seen  at  a  vast  distance.  I  was  born  with  tender 
and  strong  feelings,  and  a  friend  was  the  bounds  of 
my  ambition. 

At  length  the  day  came,  St.  Patrick's  day, 
blessed  be  his  name,  it  gave  me  freedom.  My  agi- 
tation had  kept  me  awake  the  whole  night  before, 
for  1  had  a  sort  of  fear  that  something  would  occur 
to  hinder  me  from  leaving  the  office.  As  to  where 
J  was  to  go,  that  never  troubled  me — green  fields, 
the  river,  running  brooks,  trees,  birds,  and  the  ani- 
mals of  the  country,  were  all  before  me,  and  to  me 
they  would  speak  volumes.  If  man  denied  me  his 
sympathy,  they  would  not  refuse  it;  and  to  the 
haunts  of  my  childhood,  to  the  very  spot  where  I 
drew  my  breath,  there  I  meant  to  direct  my  steps. 
I  knew  I  had  not  neglected  a  single  duty,  nor 
disobeyed  a  single  command.  God  had  blessed 
me  with  health,  so  that  I  never  had  to  keep  my 
room  for  one  day  even.  To  be  sure,  there  were 
times  when  I  had  severe  headaches,  and  wretched 
coughs,  and  great  weakness  from  night  sweats; 
but  I  never  complained,  determined  that,  when  my 
day  of  service  expired,  there  should  be  nothing 
exacted  of  me  for  lost  time.  I  did  not  know  that 
my  master  would  make  me  remain,  to  work  out  the 
days  that  were  lost  by  sickness,  but  it  had  been  put 
in  my  head  by  some  of  the  apprentices,  and  I  never 
forgot  it. 

On  this  happy,  memorable  morning,  dressed  in  a 
lull  suit  of  mourning,  even  to  the  crape  on  my  new- 
hat,  with  a  valise  well  filled  with  good  linen,  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  stockings,  I  entered  Mr.  Bartlett's 
private  office  for  the  last  time.     He  looked  at  me 


112  THE  SURPRISE. 

with  an  inquiring  eye,  as  I  stood  covered  with  con- 
fusion and  agitation.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of 
tins,  Mr.  Parr  !"  said  he, "  you  seem  equipped  lor  a 
journey." 

"I  was  twenty-one  years  of  age  at  six  o'clock 
this  morning,"  said  I,  my  face  flushed  as  I  could 
feel  by  the  tingling  in  my  ears. 

"  Well,  what  if  you  were,"  said  he,  looking  as 
much  surprised  as  if  an  apprentice  never  was  to 
leave  his  master.  "  I  thought  your  time  was  nearly 
out — this  is  St.  Patrick's  day,  is  it?  but  you  are 
going  to  return.  You  shall  have  good  wages,  and 
1  shall  take  care  that  you  have  a  good  berth." 

"No,  sir,"  said  I,  almost  breathless  with  fear  that 
I  should  be  spell  bound, — "  no,  sir,  I  intend  to  travel 
about  in  the  country  this  summer;  I  am  going  to 
put  head  stones  to  the  graves  of  my  father  and 
mother  :  that  is  my  first  purpose,  now  that  I  have 
money  and  am  free.  I  hope  and  trust  that  you 
think  I  have  served  a  faithful  and  honest  appren- 
ticeship, and  that  if  1  want  a  situation  in  a  printing 
Office  1  can  ask  you  for  a  good  character." 

"  Yes,  most  assuredly  you  can ;  but  you  need 
not  apply  elsewhere.  I  know  your  worth,  young 
man,  and  1  have  both  the  power  and  inclination  to 
serve  you.  Serve  me  for  five  years  as  well  as  you 
have  done,  and  I  will  make  you  a  partner  in  the 
concern." 

I  thanked  him  warmly  for  this  gratifying  mark 
of  esteem,  but  I  could  not  accept  of  his  ofier,  my 
very  heart  turned  sick  at  the  thought  of  staying 
another  day  even.  He  was  evidently  disconcerted, 
and  made  several  pauses,  as  if  to  consider  whether 
he  might  not  propose  something  more  acceptable, 
but  I  fortified  myself  against  all  that  he  might 
urge,  and  I  am  sure  that  an  offer  to  make  me  his 
full  partner  immediately  would  not  have  induced 
me  to  remain. 


THE  SURPRISE.  *   113 

I  asked  for  my  indentures.  "  Well,"  said  he, 
■  Mr.  Parr,  you  are  not  to  be  moved,  I  see ;  but  that 
shall  not  hinder  me  from  doing  you  justice;  you 
have  served  me  well,  and  it  is  but  fair  that  I  should 
look  to  your  interest.  He  turned  from  me  and 
wrote  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  two  publishers, 
one  in  New  York  and  the  other  in  Boston,  and 
taking  his  check  book  from  the  shelf,  he  drew  a 
check,  which  I  found  was  for  two  hundred  dollars. 
He  gave  me  the  three  papers,  and  then  proceeded 
to  look  for  the  indenture;  he  handed  it  to  me, 
endorsed  properly,  and  after  thanking  him  for  his 
former  and  present  kindness,  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  allow  me  to  beg  one  more  favour  of  him, 
which  was  that  he  would  still  keep  for  me  the  cer- 
tificates of  my  parents'  marriage  and  my  birth, 
and  allow  me  to  draw  on  him,  as  usual,  for  the 
interest  of  the  mortgage  which  he  held  for  me.  He 
had  previously  to  this  put  me  in  possession  of  it, 
and  of  the  money  in  the  savings  bank,  he  having 
held  it  in  trust  for  me.  He  readily  promised  me 
this  favour,  begging  me  to  use  the  money  prudently 
as  hitherto,  and  in  case  of  any  difficulty  to  apply 
to  him.  We  shook  hands,  and  I  was  in  the  act  of 
picking  up  my  valise  to  depart  when  the  crape  on 
my  hat  caught  his  eye. 

"  You  are  in  mourning,  I  perceive,"  said  he, 
••  there  is  crape  on  your  hat  and  your  clothes  are 
black  ;  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  a  single  rela- 
tion here." 

"  Nor  have  I,"  said  I.  I  put  on  this  mourning 
dress  as  a  mark  of  affectionate  gratitude  to  my 
poor  godfather,  Patrick  O'Brien.  I  had  it  not  in 
my  power  to  do  it  before,  but  as  his  goodness  lives 
still  fresh  and  green  in  my  memory,  why  should  I 
omit  doing  that  which  I  know  would  gratify  his 
spirit  if  it  should  be  permitted  him  to  know  it?" 

"  I  wish  for  vour  sake  that  he  had  lived  to  sec  this 


114  THE  SURPRISE. 

day,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  "  but  I  will  not  detain  yon 
longer;  I  wish  you  ■well  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart." 

"  There  is  but  one  thing  more,  sir,"  said  I,  turning 
back  from  the  door.  "  There  are  several  articles 
belonging  to  me  in  my  bed  room  ;  I  have  given 
them  to  the  youngest  apprentice,  and  I  wish  he 
may  have  your  sanction  to  retain  them  ;  here  is  a 
list  of  them."  He  took  the  list :  I  left  the  room, 
walked  hastily  through  the  hall,  and  shut  the  street 
door  as  I  went  out — I  shut  out  the  whole  twelve 
years  from  my  memory. 

It  was  a  clear,  cold,  bright  day  ;  the  frost  had 
been  out  of  the  ground  for  some  time,  so  that  the 
roads  were  dry  and  the  walking  pleasant,  but  the 
sense  of  freedom  was  exquisite.  "  What,"  said  I, 
"  no  calls  upon  my  time,  no  hurry,  no  driving  ? 
can  1  call  this  blessed  day  my  own  ?  is  that  ??n/ 
sun  ?  that  glorious  sun  which  goes  careering 
through  the  sky,  and  shedding  its  brightness  all 
around,  filling  my  eyes  with  the  beautiful  pictures 
which  it  illuminates?"  And  thus  1  went  on,  step  by 
step,  rejoicing,  my  enraptured  soul  drinking  in  new 
cause  for  exultation  at  every  turn. 

In  the  whole  twelve  years  I  had  never  eaten  a 
meal  out  of  Mr.  Bartlett's  house,  nor  had  I  ever 
been  within  the  walls  of  any  other  house  than  his, 
so  strictly  did  I  keep  within  the  limits  of  my  duty. 
I  was  exceedingly  shy,  therefore,  of  entering  a  pub- 
lic house,  although  my  hunger  was  beginning  to 
make  itself  felt.  But  I  conquered  my  timidity,  and 
entering  a  house  of  entertainment  I  called  for  din- 
ner. I  was  ushered  into  a  neat  room,  and  in  the 
course  of  half  an  hour  was  served  with  what 
appeared  to  me  then  an  excellent  dinner.  I  was 
covered  with  confusion  because  the  host  would 
wait  on  me,  and  I  was  equally  embarrassed  with 
the  services  of  a  goodnatured  waiter,  who  bowed 


THE  SURPRISE.  115 

low   when  I  paid  for  the  dinner,  and  still  lower 
when  I  refused  to  take  the  half  dollar  change. 

I  was  now  completely  in  the  country,  and  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  place  that   gave    me  birth. 
Having  a  faint  recollection  of  the  house  in  which 
my  parents  lived,  I  determined,   if  I  ever  was  rich 
enough,  that  I  would  purchase  it;  for  visions  of  a 
beautiful  river,  and  a  waterfall,  and  every  variety 
of   romantic    scenery,    were    constantly    floating 
before  me;  and  then  there  was  the  inspiration  of 
my  mother  to  heighten  the  picture.     I  reached  the 
spot  at  nightfall,  and  engaged  lodgings  at  the  inn — 
not  the  one  that  you  now  see  at  the  head  of  the 
briery  lane,  but  further  on;   it  was  destroj^ed  by 
fire  about  four  years  ago;  you  must  all  recollect 
it.     Here  1  remained  three  weeks,  going  over  the 
haunts  of  my  early   childhood — infancy,  I  might 
say — and    reviving    the  almost  faded    images,   by 
being  amongst  the  same  scenes.     The  willow  and 
the    aspen   tree,  near    my  spring    house,    O'Brien 
.helped  me  to  plant  when  1  was  about  six  years  old, 
and  under  the  large  elm  I  used  to  lie  when  I  first 
began  to  read.     You  need  not  be  surprised  that  I 
purchased   this  little  estate   as   soon  as  I  had  the 
means    of  doing    so;  I    contemplated   it  from  the 
moment  I  entered  Mr.  Bartlett's  employment,  and 
it  was  a  project  that  never  ceased  to  occupy  my 
thoughts.     The  house  was  small,  but  substantially 
built;  it  is  the  one  on  the  edge  of  the  common,  in 
which    Martha's  brother   lives;    and  I  keep  it  in 
neat  repair,  as  I  also  do  the  garden  in  which  my 
father  worked;    these  fine  apple  trees  are  of  his 
planting.     I  made  several  attempts  to  purchase  the 
little  property  which  once  belonged  to  my  poor  god- 
father, but  it  belonged  to  an  old  man  by  the  name  of 
Banks;  he  added  it  to  the  Oak  Valley  farm,  which 
I  do  not  regret  now,  as  it  has  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  our  excellent  neighbours,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Webb. 


1  1  0  THE  SURPRISE. 

I  know  the  precise  spot  where  my  parents  were 
buried,  for  poor  Patrick  had  described  it  accurately, 
making  a  drawing  of  it  upon  a  piece  of  paper 
which  I  shall  preserve  to  the  day  of  my  death;  I 
therefore  placed  a  tomb  stone  to  each  grave,  with 
an  inscription  that  satisfied  my  ardent  feelings,  but 
which  I  have  since  replaced  with  others  more  suited 
to  their  humble  merits  and  my  more  mature  judg- 
ment. Patrick's  grave  was  about  a  mile  from  the 
city,  and,  with  Mr.  Bartlett's  assent,  I  had  caused 
a  neat  stone  to  be  put  over  it,  as  many  as  six  years 
before  this  period. 

My  hard  hearted  old  nurse  was  then  and  is  still 
living;  that  line,  promising  boy  that  was  lost  at 
sea,  and  in  whom  you  all  took  such  an  interest, 
was  her  only  child;  for  his  sake  I  allow  her  a  small 
yearly  sum,  but  she  has  no  idea  that  I  am  the  one 
that  she  so  cruelly  gave  up  to  the  ill  usage  of  the  poor 
creatures  around  her.  Poor  Patrick,  how  he  hated 
her;  she  even  taunted  him  when  she  afterwards 
saw  him  with  me,  pretending  to  wonder  why  he 
did  not  dress  me  in  such  fine  clothes  as  formerly. 
He  had,  in  his  days  of  wealth,  bought  me  a  hobby 
horse,  the  skeleton  of  which  I  found  about  three 
years  ago  in  an  old  barn,  and  which  I  knew  imme- 
diately, for  the  initials  of  my  name  were  carved 
underneath  by  him  ;  it  is  in  complete  order  again. 
How  it  would  gratify  the  poor,  kind  old  man,  were 
he  living,  for  he  would  know  the  motives  which 
influenced  me  in  this  trifling  act. 

What  a  tumult  of  mind  I  was  in  during  these 
three  weeks  !  The  country  had  not  the  tranquillizing 
effect  that  I  expected,  for  I  was  striving  to  recall 
fargone  images  and  thoughts  ;  I  went  to  every  old 
tree,  to  the  brook,  to  the  river,  to  the  church,  and 
to  the  pew  in  which  my  parents  sat,  for  of  this  too 
I  had  inquired  of  Patrick.  I  thought  my  all  of 
happiness  was  centred  in  this  one  place,  and  that, 


THE  SURPRISE.  117 

though  humau  sympathy  was  denied  me,  I  might 
here  pass  the  remainder  of  my  days  in  peace  and 
quiet,  worshipping  my  Maker,  and  in  doing  good 
to  the  poor  creatures  around  me.  But  the  money 
was  to  be  made  to  purchase  these  blessings,  for  I 
had  but  eig'hteen  hundred  dollars,  and  it  required  as 
many  thousands  to  accomplish  this  desirable  object, 
and  Patrick's  last  injunction  for  ever  rung  in  my 
ears^ — "never  be  idle." 

I  tore  myself  away  from  this  cherished  spot,  and 
walked  back  again  to  the  city  just  in  time  to  get  in. 
one  of  the  cars  for  New  York,  where  I  arrived  the 
same  afternoon.  After  I  had  looked  at  the  curiosi- 
ties which  were,  to  me,  so  thickly  scattered  about, 
I  thought  it  quite  time  to  commence  work  in  earnest. 
I  therefore  called  on  a  printer  by  the  name  of 
Blagge  and  offered  my  services.  He  happened, 
luckily,  to  be  in  want  of  a  proofreader,  and  with- 
out entering  into  any  definite  agreement,  I  com- 
menced the  work,  he  having  meanwhile  written  to 
Mr.  Bartlett,  that  he  might  be  sure  of  the  genuine- 
ness of  the  letter  of  recommendation.  Mr.  Blagge 
was  quite  pleased  with  my  care  and  industry,  as 
well  as  with  my  knowledge  of  the  subject  matter 
of  the  work  ;  he  said  that  he  could  now  bring  out 
a  book  which  he  had  long  wished  to  publish,  but 
that  his  proof  renders  were,  in  general,  so  pro- 
foundly ignorant  of  science,  that  he  was  unwilling 
to  undertake  it.  I  begged  him  to  defer  it  until  the 
ensuing  spring,  that  I  intended  to  improve  myself 
by  attending  the  lectures,  and  that  I  should  then  be 
better  able  to  t;ike  charge  of  the  work.  Meantime 
he  gave  me  four  hundred  dollars  a  year,  with  a 
promise  of  presenting  me  with  tickets  to  such  of 
the  lectures  as  I  chose  to  attend. 

My  companions  in  the  office  were  civil,  nay, 
respectful ;  for  I  came  amongst  them  under  favoura- 
ble circumstances,  and  Mr.  Blaggc's  kind  manner 

L 


1 18  THE  SURPRISE. 

towards  me  had  a  great  cliect  on  them.  But  they 
were  not  suited  to  me;  I  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  in  vain  for  one  of  congenial  mind  ;  they  were 
all  industrious,  and  some  ambitions;  but  their 
minds  were  a  blank,  and  their  pursuits,  when  dis- 
engaged from  their  business,  were  of  a  low  order. 
Not  one  could  I  find  that  loved  to  walk  out  in  the 
country  for  the  sake  of  breathing  pure  air,  and  of 
enjoying  the  soft,  tender  scenes  of  nature;  their 
pleasures  lay  in  eating  cellars  where  the  best  sup- 
pers could  be  had  for  their  limited  means,  and  in 
playing  at  some  low  pastime  night  after  night,  such 
as  Domino,  All-fours,  Yingtun,  and  other  games  of 
chance;  and  on  Sundays  to  take  a  sail,  or  some- 
thing, in  fact,  which  tended  to  demoralize  rather 
than  improve. 

Mr.  Blagge  was,  as  I  observed,  respectful  and 
kind,  but  he  was  full  of  cares  and  anxieties,  having 
a  very  large  family  to  support,  and  with  but  slender 
means;  in  fact,  he  had  been  very  much  embar- 
rassed, and  was  just  recovering  from  it.  It  was 
not  to  be  supposed  that  he  could  interest  himself  in 
the  feelings  of  a  young  man  with  whom  he  had  so 
slight  an  acquaintance — one,  likewise,  who  did  not 
ask  for  his  sympathy.  I  therefore  moved  on  in 
silence,  occupying  myself  at  leisure  hours  in  learn- 
ing the  French  and  Latin  lartgnages,  which,  with 
the  help  of  good  teachers  and  books  I  was  enabled 
to  do  in  the  course  of  a  few  months.  This  was  a 
delightful  occupation  to  me.  and  I  soon  overcame 
all  the  difficulties,  excepting  the  pronunciation, 
which  I  was  unable  to  accomplish,  as  I  had  no  one 
with  whom  I  could  converse.  I  learned  the  Latin 
that  I  might  more  fully  comprehend  the  meaning 
of  the  technical  terms  made  use  of  in  all  the  works 
of  science,  and  which  I  considered  it  absolutely 
necessary  to  do,  as  I  was  so  soon  to  take  charge 
of  the  reputation  of  the  great  forthcoming  work. 


TUB  SUKPKISE.  119 

Here  was,  therefore,  another  pleasure,  for  I  now 
became  passionately  fond  of  works  of  this  nature, 
and  my  greedy  mind  devoured  all  that  came  within 
reach.  I  had  nothing  to  interfere  with  my  plan  of 
study,  living  entirely  alone,  and  having  no  asso- 
ciates ;  I  hired  a  room  in  which  I  slept  and  studied, 
and  I  took  my  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  at  a 
cheap  ordinary  near  the  office.  As  I  stipulated  to 
labour  only  between  sunrise  and  sunset,  I  had  as 
much  time  as  I  wanted  for  exercise  and  reading, 
and  my  practice  was  to  walk  from  the  hour  I  left 
the  office  until  it  was  dark,  eat  my  supper,  and  then 
retire  to  my  room.  Being  an  early  riser,  there  was 
time,  therefore,  to  attend  to  my  dress,  for  I  had 
again  become  fastidiously  clean.  It  now  appears 
to  me  that  1  hurried  from  one  thing  to  another,  and 
engaged  in  every  thing  so  vigorously,  to  keep  ofT 
the  ever-intruding  fueling  of  loneliness.  I  wonder 
if  any  other  human  being  suffered  so  acutely  on 
this  subject  as  I  did ;  it  seemed  as  if  I  would  have 
given  all  I  was  worth  in  the  world  for  one  friend. 

But  heaven  at  length  took  pity  on  my  desolate 
situation,  and  I  was  about  to  be  rewarded  for  all 
(hat  I  had  suffered;  it  came  in  a  way,  too,  in 
which  a  man  should  be  blest — in  the  form  of  love. 

I  was  always  a  regular  attendant  at  divine  wor- 
ship, excepting  during  the  latter  part  of  poor 
O'Brien's  life,  being  then  compelled  to  walk  out 
with  him  and  talk  to  him;  but  after  his  death  I  used 
to  go  twice  every  Sunday  to  church,  going  to  every 
one  that  would  admit  me.  Now  that  I  was  my 
•  >wn  master,  and  had  the  means  to  do  it,  I  hired  a 
seat  in  a  church  about  three  miles  out  of  town, 
where  I  could  worship  God  without  the  fear  of 
having  my  attention  distracted  by  the  restlessness 
and  frivolity  of  a  fashionable  city  congregation.  I 
gained  another  object,  too;  I  had  a  pleasant  walk, 
and  the  exercise  was  necessary  to  my  health. 


120  THE  SURPRISE. 

Directly  m  front  of  the  pew  that  I  occupied  sat 
two  ladies  and  a  gentleman,  regular  attendants 
likewise;  the  elderly  lady  was  very  lame,  and 
required  assistance  both  in  getting  in  and  out  of  the 
carriage,  and  the  gentleman,  I  thought,  seemed 
rather  indifferent  about  her  comfort,  for  he  was  not 
as  tender  and  delicate  in  his  attentions  as  he  should 
have  been.  Almost  the  whole  trouble  of  assisting 
her  fell  on  the  young  lady,  who,  1  presumed,  was 
her  daughter.  I  had  a  very  great  desire  to  offer 
my  services,  but  my  shyness  of  strangers  prevented 
me,  although  every  succeeding  week  I  saw  that 
the  poor  invalid  was  less  and  less  able  to  help  her- 
self. Standing  very  near  them  one  day,  I  found 
that  it  was  utterly  impossible  for  the  young  lady  to 
get  her  aged  relative  in  the  carriage  without  help, 
so  I  stepped  hastily  forward  just  as  the  old  lady 
was  falling  from  the  step,  and  in  time  to  catch  her 
in  my  arms.  1  lifted  her  gently  in  the  carriage, 
seated  her  comfortably  in  it,  sprung  out  again,  and 
offered  my  hand  to  the  young-  lady.  It  was  the 
impulse  of  a  moment.  The  door  closed,  and  the 
carriage  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

But  what  a  tumult  and  confusion  I  was  in  ;  what 
strange  feelings  overpowered  me.  There  had  been 
magic  in  the  touch  of  the  hand.  There  had  been 
magic  in  the  glance  of  her  eye,  as  she  turned  to 
thank  me.  A  dreamy  softness  came  over  me,  and 
diffused  itself  through  my  very  soul.  I  could  not 
imagine  why  it  was  that  so  slight  an  incident  should 
have  affected  me  so  deeply ;  but  I  thought  of  no- 
thing, dreamed  of  nothing,  but  the  touch  of  that 
hand  and  the  glance  of  that  beautiful  eye.  It  was 
in  vain  that  I  took  up  my  pen  or  my  book,  in  the 
evening;  in  a  few  seconds,  my  hand  dropped  and 
my  eye  rested  on  vacancy. 

With  more  than  usual  care  I  attended  to  my 
dress  on  the  following  Sunday,  and  I  was  there  at 


THE  SURPRISE.  121 

the  church  door  sooner  than  necessary,  waiting  for 
the  carriage.  It  did  not  arrive,  and  I  was  com- 
pelled to  enter  and  take  my  seat,  as  the  clergyman 
had  commenced  the  service.  You  may  imagine 
my  feelings  when  I  saw  the  lady  sitting  quietly  in 
her  pew,  by  the  side  of  the  old  gentleman:  they 
had  walked  to  church,  having  left  the  invalid  at 
home  ;  and  they  had  passed  me  while  I  was  gazing 
up  the  road  for  the  carriage.  When  leaving  the 
church  I  inquired  whether  the  lady  had  been  pre- 
vented from  coming  to  church  from  indisposition; 
and  a  voice,  the  sweetest  and  the  gentlest  that  ever 
fell  on  human  ear,  answered  my  question.  I  was 
so  startled,  both  by  my  own  temerity,  in  thus  ven- 
turing to  address  her,  and  by  the  uncommon  soft- 
ness of  her  voice,  that  I  did  not  hear  the  import  of 
the  words;  but  the  loveliness  of  the  tones  remained 
imprinted  on  my  memory  for  ever.  No  music, 
since,  has  ever  made  the  like  impression. 

Sunday  was  now  a  day  of  exquisite  enjoyment; 
for,  added  to  strong  devotional  feelings,  I  was 
breathing  the  same  atmosphere  with  a  being  that 
I  considered  as  all  perfection.  She  appeared  Jo  be 
that  for  which  I  had  so  long  sought — a  friend,  a 
sister — and  I  hoped  the  time  was  not  far  distant 
when  I  could  approach  her  and  again  hear  that 
musical  voice.  In  this  blissful  state  the  summer 
passed,  unclouded,  save  that  the  lady  was  once  ab- 
sent from  church — it  was  owing  to  the  death  of  the 
elderly  person  who,  I  discovered,  was  not  her  mo- 
ther, but  a  distant  connexion,  who  had  resided  with 
them  for  many  years;  and  that  the  gentleman  I 
siqtposed  to  be  her  lather  was  her  uncle.  She  was 
an  orphan,  and  her  destiny  seemed  for  ever  linked 
with  mine,  from  this  circumstance. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  summer,  the  young  lady 
sometimes  came  to  church  alone;  and  fearing  that, 
when  the  cold  weather  set  in,  I  should  lose  sight  of 

r    Q 


122  THE  SURPRISE. 

her,  perhaps  for  ever,  I  determined  to  make  one  at- 
tempt to  interest  her  in  my  favour.  I  had  super- 
intended the  getting  up  of  a  beautiful  prayer-book, 
the  type,  paper,  plates  and  execution  were  perfect, 
and  I  had  one  copy  exquisitely  bound.  I  even  ven- 
tured to  write  the  name  of  this  fair  being  in  the 
first  page,  and  intended  to  present  it  to  her;  but  it 
was  a  month  before  I  gained  courage  to  make  the 
attempt.  At  one  time  I  thought  to  lay  it  on  the 
ledge  of  her  pew,  in  silence;  but  I  could  not  bear 
that  her  devotions  should  be  interrupted  by  what 
might  be  considered  as  an  act  of  levity  on  my  part, 
so  I  forbore.  I  ventured,  at  last,  to  address  her  on 
coming  out  of  church  ;  and  to  my  surprise,  I  found 
myself  walking  forward  with  her.  She  always 
carried  her  prayer-book,  and  I  asked  permission  to 
look  at  it;  she  smiled  and  gave  it  to  me,  and  I  then 
took  the  one  intended  for  her  from  my  pocket,  and 
presented  it  to  her,  making  my  bow  suddenly,  and 
hastening  with  the  speed  of  lightning  from  her  sight 
■ — I  need  not  say  that  the  little  worn  out  prayer-book 
is  still  a  treasure  to  me. 

How  she  received  the  book  I  could  not  tell,  nor 
had  I  an  opportunity  of  knowing,  on  the  following 
Sunday,  for  it  stormed  so  violently  that  none  but 
a  devoted  lover,  like  myself,  would  have  ventured 
out.  Sl*e  was  not  there,  nor  did  I  expect  to  see 
her;  but  I  had  an  exquisite  pleasure  in  being  in  a 
spot  where  I  had  so  frequently  been  near  her.  On 
the  Saturday  following  the  lectures  commenced  ;  I 
was  to  attend  three,  Astronomy,  Natural  Philoso- 
phy and  Chemistry,  but  fearing  that  my  mind  was 
in  too  unsettled  a  slate  to  attend  to  them  all,  I  only 
entered  my  name  for  two — Chemistry  and  Astro- 
nomy. 

The  lecture  room  was  in  a  narrow  street,  badly 
lighted  ;  and,  there  being  a  basement,  it  became  ne- 
cessary to  have  a  number  of  steps  to  the  porch.    It 


THE  SURPRISE.  123 

was  November,  and  there  had  been  a  little  sleet  in 
the  afternoon,  so  that  the  steps  were  slippery,  and  I 
could  not  avoid  the  reflection  that  it  would  be  ex- 
ceedingly unsafe  for  ladies  to  pass  up  and  down. 
It  being  an  introductory  lecture,  the  room  was 
crowded,  as  it  always  is,  and  I  therefore  stood  near 
the  door,  not  caring  to  disturb  any  one  by  making 
an  attempt  to  look  for  a  seat.  A  lady  and  gentle- 
man sat  near  to  the  corner  where  I  stood,  and  on 
his  getting  up,  she  turned  her  head.  You  may  judge 
of  my  amazement  and  rapture  when  I  saw  it  was 
the  lady  who  was  ever  present  to  my  mind. 

She  smiled,  and  in  a  moment  I  wTas  at  her  side — 
she  spoke,  for  I  could  not;  I  again  heard  that  mu- 
sical, that  charming  voice,  and  the  lecturer  and  the 
crowd  were  forgotten.  I  think  she  said  something 
pleasing  of  the  book,  but  my  heart  beat  so  violently 
that  I  could  not  tell  what  it  was.  She  saw  my  agi- 
tation, but  thought  it  proceeded  from  mere  bashful- 
ness,  and  she  therefore  talked  on,  of  the  lecture  and 
of  the  crowd.  I  said  yes,  no,  any  thing — but  I 
soon  recovered,  for  of  one  thing  I  was  now  certain 
— my  book  was  not  to  be  returned;  she  had  spoken 
graciously  of  it,  and  I  was  the  happiest  of  mortals. 
My  tongue  seemed  loosened  from  its  long  iron  bon- 
dage, and  I  poured  out  my  thoughts  in  a  strain  that 
now  astonishes  me.  She  listened  whilst  I  explained 
to  her  the  advantages  and  pleasures  of  science, 
particularly  that  branch  of  it  which  now  occupied 
the  attention  of  the  audience.  I  was  the  lecturer, 
and  the  voice  of  the  one  now  speaking,  which  was 
falling  on  the  ears  of  all  in  the  room,  was  like  a  far 
distant  sound — we  heard  it  noL 

The  young  man  who  came  with  her  was  stand- 
ing up  near  us  and  taking  notes;  he  had  come  re- 
gularly provided  with  a  book  and  pencil,  and  seem- 
ed more  intent  on  getting  information  than  on  the 
comfort  of  his  charge.     He  now  and  then  cast  a 


124  THE  SURPRISE. 

look  towards  us,  and  it  appeared  to  me  that  I  had 
seen  him  somewhere,  but  I  was  too  happy  to  let  the 
subject  take  hold  of  my  mind.  What  did  I  care 
for  him,  or  all  the  world,  whilst  I  was  drawing  in 
new  life  at  every  breath. 

Our  conversation  was  carried  on  in  the  lowest 
whispers,  so  as  not  to  be  overheard  ;  but  we  were 
far  removed  from  the  centre,  and  there  were  others 
talking  in  louder  tones  near  to  us;  for  of  the  num- 
ber who  came  to  listen  there  were  but  few  who  had 
a  real  desire  to  learn.  As  it  afterwards  proved, 
the  class  was  very  small,  there  not  being  more  than 
fifty  of  the  audience  now  present.  1  was  overjoy- 
ed to  hear  that  the  young  lady  intended  to  come 
every  night ;  that  she  was  to  remain  at  a  friend's 
in  town,  on  purpose  to  attend  the  lectures  ;  and  this 
gentleman  was  to  be  her  escort.  I  learned  that  he 
was  her  uncle's  grandson,  and  that  he  had  a  pas- 
sion for  study,  particularly  chemistry-  I  exerted 
all  my  eloquence  to  prevail  on  her  to  attend  the 
astronomical  lectures  likewise;  but  she  said,  much 
as  she  desired  it,  she  feared  it  was  out  of  her  power, 
but  that  she  would  write  to  her  uncle  for  permis- 
sion. 

The  minutes  flew,  and  the  audience  were 'making 
a  move  to  retire  before  I  awakened  from  this  bliss- 
ful trance.  The  young  man  came  to  us  at  last,  and 
asked  the  lady  how  she  was  pleased  with  the  lec- 
ture. She  smiled,  and  said,  very  much,  and  then 
the  crowd  pressed  on  and  separated  us.  I  got  out 
as  quickly  as  possible,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  hand- 
ing her  down  the  slippery  steps;  and,  as  if  expect- 
ing it,  her  precious  hand  was  read}'  as  soon  as  1  of- 
fered mine. 

Oh,  what  visions  of  happiness  floated  through  my 
brain  that  eventful  night.  Even  my  dreams  were 
filled  with  the  sweet  silvery  tones  of  her  voice.  It 
seemed  as  if  angels  were  hovering  round  my  bed, 


THE  SURPRISE.  125 

to  sooth  and  tranquilize  my  troubled  spirit;  and 
not  one  discordant  thought  or  sound  mingled  with 
it.  Oh,  if  man  would  but  give  up  his  whole  soul 
to  pure  love.  If  he  would  let  it  mix  up  with  his 
worldly  occupations.  If  he  would  allow  it  to  be  for 
ever  present,  how  exalted  would  his  nature  become; 
how  free  from  all  grossness  and  immoral  thoughts 
and  actions.  For  my  part,  it  had  such  an  effect 
upon  me  that  my  whole  nature  was  changed.  I 
was,  to  be  sure,  free  from  all  vicious  tendencies  ; 
and  I  was  active  in  benevolence  towards  the  poor; 
but  my  heart  was  frozen  up,  and  I  looked  on  the 
world,  and  those  immediately  around  me,  with  a 
cold,  averted  eye.  Now,  my  full  heart  seemed 
bursting  to  communicate  its  happiness  to  others; 
and  I  became  sensible  that  it  was  in  my  power  to 
impart  pleasure  although  1  might  receive  neither 
thanks  nor  sympathy  in  return. 

I  was  attentive,  therefore,  to  what  was  passing 
around  me;  moving  my  desk  a  few  feet  farther,  to 
give  more  light  to  one  man,  and  nailing  a  cleat  be- 
tween the  tall  legs  of  a  stool,  to  give  ease  to  the  feet 
of  another.  I  bought  a  pot  of  pomatum,  and  made 
one  of  the  young  apprentices  rub  it  on  his  poor 
cracked  and  chopped  hands,  buying  him  a  stout  pair 
of  gloves,  to  protect  them  from  the  cold.  I  helped 
the  book-keeper  through  an  intricate  account,  beg- 
ging him  not  to  speak  of  it  to  others ;  a  thing  which 
he  did  not  intend  to  do,  being  only  too  fearful  that 
I  might  mention  it  myself.  My  thawed  heart  ex- 
panded to  all  around  me ;  and,  as  it  acquired 
warmth,  it  diffused  its  sympathies  to  every  thing 
within  its  reach.  Oh,  holy  love,  when  in  thy  true 
shape,  how  benign  is  thy  influence  ! 

The  lady's  uncle  was  gracious,  and  allowed  her 
to  attend  the  astronomical  lectures  likewise;  and  I 
need  not  say  how  regular  I  was  in  my  attendance 
and  devotion;  for  as  the  young  man  was  not  par- 


126  THE  SURPRISE. 

ticularly  interested  in  (his  study,  lie  sometimes 
brought  the  young  lady  in  the  room  and  left  her, 
calling  for  her  either  before  or  after  the  lecture  was 
over.  This  he  did  not  scruple  to  do,  as  the  lady  with 
whom  she  lived,  at  present,  always  accompanied 
her  to  this  lecture.  I  brought  her  note-books  and 
pencils,  and  assisted  her  in  taking  notes,  contriving 
that  she  should  have  the  most  comfortable  seat  in 
the  room  ;  and  all  these  attentions  she  received  in 
the  kindest  manner — she  received  them  as  a  sister 
would  from  a  brother,  and  1  was  satisfied. 

Thus  the  winter  wore  away,  and  the  month  of 
February  had  nearly  closed,  before  the  lectures 
Were  over.  There  was  still  one  more  evening 
for  each,  and  then  this  delightful  intercourse  was 
to  cease;  for  1  could  not  devise  any  plan  by  which 
I  could  gain  access  to  the  presence  of  the  young 
lady;  more  particularly  as  the  young  man  had  been 
more  than  usually  vigilant  and  careful  of  her,  and 
seemed  desirous  of  preventing  her  from  receiving 
so  much  of  my  attention.  Her  companion,  too, 
scarcely  condescended,  of  late,  to  notice  me  ;  nil  of 
which  I  saw  was  painful  to  the  only  being  for  whom 
I  cared.  I  went,  as  usual,  to  the  astronomical  lec- 
ture—  it  was,  as  I  observed,  the  last;  and  she  was 
there  also  with  the  same  lady,  who  cast  a  scorn- 
ful glance  at  me  as  I  approached  their  seat. 

I  could  not  imagine  what  had  produced  such  a 
change  in  this  lady's  manner  towards  me,  unless 
she  had  been  told  of  my  humble  occupation,  and 
that  it  had  mortified  her  vanity  to  recei\e  attention 
from  one  who  might  be  considered  as  a  journey- 
man. From  the  first  evening  of  my  meeting  the 
fair  creature  to  whom  I  had  so  unresistingly  yield- 
ed up  my  heart,  I  made  her  acquainted  with  my 
actual  situation,  my  prospects  and  my  hopes.  It 
seemed  necessarily  inierwoven  in  the  theme  that  I 
was  discussing;  for  I  spoke  of  the  difficulties  1  had 


*HE  SURPRlSg.  127 

to  encounter,  in  consequence  of  which  knowledge 
came  to  me  slowly;  contrasting  it  with  the  facili- 
ties which  were  now  in  my  power.  Neither  she 
nor  J  dreamed  that  high  birth  or  fortune  were  at  all 
necessary  to  an  intercourse  so  simple,  so  unexact- 
ing  as  ours.  She  redoubled  the  kindness  of  her 
usual  manner  on  seeing  that  I  was  a  little  hurt  by 
her  friend's  coolness;  but  she  little  knew  the  pain  I 
suffered  on  hearing  that  she  was  not  to  be  at  the 
last  chemical  lecture — her  uncle  was  in  town,  and 
they  were  to  return  home  on  that  day. 

It  came  like  a  death  knell  to  my  heart.  What, 
was  she  to  go  and  not  be  informed  of  the  tender 
and  enduring  love  I  bore  her!  Was  I  never  to  see 
her;  to  hear  that  voice  again  !  Was  this  to  be  the 
last  interview  !  I  could  not  bear  it.  I  took  her  note 
book,  tremblingly,  from  her  hand,  and  wrote  as  fol- 
lows— 

"  You  have  pierced  my  heart  with  grief.  You 
are  to  leave  the  city,  and  I  am  to  see  you  no  more. 
My  whole  soul  is  absorbed  in  one  feeling;  and  that 
is,  love  for  you;  and  now  that  you  are  going  from 
me,  existence  will  be  a  burden.  I  ask  you  not  to 
love  me  in  return  ;  that  seems  impossible.  I  can 
never  hope  to  create  a  passion  such  as  I  now  feel 
for  you  ;  such  as  I  felt  from  the  moment  I  first 
heard  your  voice.  But  deign  to  think  of  me — no, 
I  cannot  give  up  the  thought  of  calling  you  mine — 
at  some  future  day,  when  fortune  has  been  propi- 
tious; or  should  some  evil  overtake  you,  remember 
me.  I  must  hasten  from  your  presence,  for  I  am 
unfit  to  remain  here;  but  if,  on  reading  this,  you 
can  feel  compassion  for  my  hopeless  love,  let  these 
few  lines  remain;  but  if  you  have  no  pity  to  oiler 
me,  tear  them  out  and  put  them  in  my  hand  as  you 
leave  the  house.  I  shall  be  there  to  receive  my 
doom  ;  but  be  merciful." 

After  having  written  this,  in  great  agony  of  mind, 


128  THE  SURPRISE. 

I  turned  to  her,  and  our  eyes  met.  She  saw  that  I 
was  uncommonly  agitated,  and  her  concern  for  me 
prevented  her  speaking.  I  bent  close  to  her  ear  and 
said,  read  this  immediately — pointing  to  the  page — 
and  remember  that  my  life  depends  on  what  you 
do.  I  hurried  from  her,  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  narrow  street  until  the  lecture  was  over ;  which, 
to  my  fevered  apprehensions,  seemed  never  to  have 
an  end. 

At  length  the  door  opened,  and  I  saw  one,  and  an- 
other, and  then  groups,  descend  the  steps ;  the  young 
lady  appearing  amongst  the  last,  moving  slowly,  so 
as  to  give  me  time  to  see  and  approach  her.  When 
at  the  bottom  of  the  flight  she  stopped,  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  as  I  came  near  her  she  said,  in  a  low 
tone,  "  Here  are  the  notes,  and  I  have  added  a  few 
lines  to  them ;  good  night."  It  was  well  she  said 
this,  as  the  giving  me  the  paper,  as  I  requested, 
would  have  plunged  me  into  despair.  I  need  not 
say  that  I  hastened  to  my  lodgings,  that  I  might 
read  the  precious  contents;  for  I  could  not  but 
augur  favourably  of  them  from  the  manner  of  her 
giving  the  paper  to  me.  Under  my  own  impas- 
sioned scrawl  were  these  lines. 

"Notwithstanding  the  fear  of  giving  you  pain,  I 
must  return  the  leaf;  for  I  should  not  like  to  leave 
it  in  the  book.  My  whole  manner  must  be  a  con- 
vincing proof  that  I  have  a  high  esteem  for  your 
character,  and  that  I  feel  a  strong  interest  in  your 
welfare;  more  than  this  I  dare  not  say.  I  am  en- 
tirely dependent  on  my  uncle;  and  it  has  been  his 
wish,  for  many  years,  to  see  me  the  wife  of  his 
grandson — the  person  who  has  always  accompa- 
nied me  to  the  lectures.  You  need  not  fear  that 
this  event  will  ever  take  place,  as  my  disinclination 
to  it  has  long  been  known  to  the  young  man  ;  and 
neither  he  nor  my  uncle  have  any  power  to  com- 
pel me.     In  saying  thus  much  I  do  not  wish  to  en- 


THE  SURPRISE.  129 

courage  you,  as  my  uncle  is  obstinate  and  unyield- 
ing, and  would  never  consent  to  the  addresses  of 
any  other  man.  I  hope  you  may  forget  me  and  be 
as  happy  as  you  deserve.  I  do  violence  to  my  feel- 
ings in  bidding  you  farewell;  but  prudence  and  a 
regard  to  your  interests  dictate  it." 

Prudence,  indeed  !  What  were  the  prudential 
reasons?  My  inability  to  support  her  ?  Surely  if 
she  loved  me,  there  were  means  enough  to  be  com- 
fortable, and  I  would  move  mountains  to  place  her 
in  affluence.  She  has  an  esteem  for  me,  and  she 
does  violence  to  her  feelings  in  bidding  me  fare- 
well. I  have  hopes,  therefore,  that,  as  her  heart  is 
disengaged,  I  may,  in  time,  aspire  to  her  love. 

In  thoughts  like  these  I  passed  the  night ;  nor  did 
I  recover  my  equanimity  for  several  days;  every 
tiling,  every  thought,  that  did  not  relate  to  her,  was 
irksome  and  distasteful,  and  my  labours  at  the  office 
were  conducted  mechanically.  The  commence- 
ment of  the  great  work  was  now  contemplated.  I 
was  told  to  get  ready  for  it;  and,  as  there  was  a 
translation  of  a  very  popular  French  work  wanted, 
Mr.  Blague  pressed  me  to  undertake  it.  Perhaps 
it  was  well  for  me  that  I  was  thus  suddenly  com- 
pelled to  exertion,  for  with  this  depression  of  spi- 
rits I  might  have  sunk  into  apathy  incurable.  I 
likewise  owed  much  to  Mr.  Blagge's  kindness  ;  and 
being  of  a  grateful  nature,  determined  not  to  dis- 
appoint him. 

To  work,  therefore,  I  went,  reading  proofs  and 
attending  to  the  types  during  the  day,  and  trans- 
lating at  night.  Proceeding  in  this  way  for  six 
weeks,  not  allowing  myself  any  exercise  but  a  short 
walk,  between  churches,  on  Sunday.  Mr.  Blague 
was  delighted,  both  with  the  execution  and  dili- 
gence, and  he  promised  to  raise  my  salary  the  en- 
suing year,  to  six  hundred  dollars.  The  French 
translation  was  likewise  commended  ;  and  I  felt  an 

M 


130  THE  SURPRISE. 

honest  pride  in  sending  all  the  papers  which  spoke 
of  the  merits  of  my  performances  to  the  only  one 
whose  applause  I  desired.  For  this  translation  I 
received  two  hundred  dollars;  so  that  my  little 
fortune  had  increased  to  two  thousand  dollars.  I 
saw  it  with  a  pleasure  that  cannot  be  expressed,  for 
J  had  now  an  object  in  view";  and  instead,  as  here- 
tofore, of  spending  all  my  income,  I  began  a  rigid 
system  of  economy,  amounting  almost  to  mean- 
ness— but  thank  heaven,  my  heart  was  not  so  ex- 
clusively selfish  as  to  forget  the  poor. 

As  soon  as  these  two  important  works  were 
through  the  press,  I  went  to  my  accustomed  seat 
in  the  church,  on  Sunday;  which,  as  I  before  men- 
tioned, was  three  miles  out  of  town;  but  my  dis- 
appointment was  very  great  in  not  seeing  the  young 
lady.  On  inquiry  of  the  sexton,  I  learned  that  the 
family  had  removed  to  a  country  seat,  about  thirty 
miles  distant ;  and  that  they  had  given  up  their 
pew.  He  could  not  tell  the  name  of  the  place  to 
which  they  had  gone;  but  he  promised  to  inquire, 
and  let  me  know  on  the  following  Sunday.  Jt  is 
impossible  to  describe  my  uneasiness  at  this  intelli- 
gence. I  fancied  that  what  was  so  desirable  a 
blessing  to  me  would  be  equally  coveted  by  others; 
and  that  her  uncle  and  cousin  had  removed  her  from 
the  world  that  their  plans  might  be  the  more  readily 
executed.  I  was  fearful  that  her  tender  nature 
might  be  subdued  by  importunities  ;  and  that  she 
would  yield  to  their  wishes,  rather  than  incur  their 
displeasure.  I  did  not  flatter  myself  that  her  love 
for  me  was  strong  enough  to  enable  her  lo  brave 
persecution;  and  how  could  she  be  assured  of  the 
strength  and  continuance  of  mine? 

Four  long  weeks  passed  and  I  could  gain  no  fur- 
ther intelligence,  than  that  Mr.  Bewcastle,  the  young 
lady's  uncle,  had  purchased  a  farm  on  the  island, 
three  miles  from  the  river  and  about  thirty  from  the 


THE  SURPRISE.  131 

city;  that  he  was  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  it,  and 
was  making  preparations  for  building  a  large  house. 
My  worst  fears  were  realized:  these  improvements 
were  no  doubt  in  the  expectation  of  his  niece's  mar- 
riage, and  I  once  more  abandoned  myself  to  despair. 
This  state  of  mind,  added  to  the  severe  labour  I  had 
gone  through,  had  so  perceptible  an  effect  on  my 
health  that  Mr.  Blagge  became  concerned.  He 
entreated  me  to  relax  a  little  in  my  attention  to 
business,  but  I  persevered  until  the  first  of  August, 
when  fearing  that  I  should  really  be  unable  to  con- 
tinue in  the  office  I  determined  on  making  an  ex- 
cursion in  the  country. 

I  need  not  say  in  which  direction  I  bent  my  steps- 
In  fact,  my  intention  was  to  explore  the  whole  of 
the  neighbourhood  until  I  heard  where  Mr.  Bew- 
castle  lived,  and  then  to  take  up  my  residence  near 
him.  I  was  very  fortunate  indeed,  for  the  man  in 
whose  house  I  rested  the  first  night,  knew  the  fa- 
mily, and  he  promised  to  take  me  to  a  friend  of  his 
who  lived  about  half  a  mile  from  them.  It  was 
about  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  when  I  reached 
the  house,  and  as  I  liked  the  place  and  the  appear- 
ance of  the  people,  I  was  induced  to  remain  with 
them,  paying  them  a  moderate  board.  I  had  abed- 
room  and  parlour  entirely  to  myself,  and  their  kind- 
ness soon  made  me  feel  myself  at  home.  They  saw 
I  was  the  very  sort  of  lodger  they  wanted,  and  they 
exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  to  make  me  com- 
fortable. When  I  tell  you  that  the  landlord  of  the 
little  inn  was  old  uncle  Porter,  now  living  in  the 
small  stone  house,  and  that  his  sister  was  our  kind 
aunt  Martha,  you  will  think  how  fortunate  I  was 
in  becoming  an  inmate  of  their  house. 

As  I  did  not  then  know  their  worth,  I  was  cau- 
tious in  my  inquiries  about  the  young  lady,  and  it 
has  amused  both  Martha  and  myself  to  recollect 
how  guarded,  and  with  what  apparent  unconcern  I 


132  THE  SURPRISE. 

talked  and  asked  questions  about  the  family.  I  ga- 
thered that  Mr.  Bevvcastle  was  a  harsh  and  obsti- 
nate man,  loving  his  own  ways  and  his  own  money 
better  than  any  thing  in  the  world  excepting  his 
grandson,  Mr.  Anglesea,  who  could  prevail  on  him 
to  do  almost  any  thing.  That  it  was  talked  of 
amongst  the  neighbours  that  he  wanted  to  marry 
his  cousin,  or  rather  second  cousin,  but  that  she 
could  not  bear  him. 

I  asked  if  they  knew  the  young  lady  personally, 
and  they  said  that  she  often  walked  their  way  and 
sometimes  stopped  to  speak  to  Martha,  who  had 
when  young  lived  with  her  parents.  That  she  had 
called  there  on  her  way  to  church  on  Sunday  last, 
and  they  were  sorry  to  see  her  look  so  thin  and 
unhappy. 

I  had  to  turn  away  suddenly  from  the  good  peo- 
ple to  hide  my  emotion,  nor  did  I  dare  to  resume 
the  conversation  for  some  time,  lest  they  might 
suspect  my  designs.  I  had,  of^course,  no  settled 
plan  of  proceeding;  my  first  object  was  to  see  the 
young  lady  and  learn  the  state  of  her  affections;  if 
they  were  favourable  to  my  hopes  I  then  intended 
to  offer  my  hand ;  my  love  had  been  hers  from  the 
first,  hour  I  saw  her.  I  projected  a  number  of 
schemes  either  to  see  her,  or  get  a  letter  conveyed 
to  her,  but  I  became  nervously  timid  when  I  at- 
tempted to  put  any  one  of  them  in  execution.  At 
that  time  if  I  could  have  been  sure  of  our  good 
Martha,  I  should  have  been  spared  two  days  of 
great  distress,  for  she,  kind  soul,  would  have  assist- 
ed me  immediately.  1  knew  of  no  better  plan,  at 
last,  than  to  get  her  to  take  a  note  to  Mr.  Bewcas- 
tle's,  and  contrive  to  give  it  to  the  dear  lady  unob- 
served by  the  family,  but  my  hatred  of  deception 
was  so  great  I  was  exceedingly  reluctant  to  practise 
this  little  artifice. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  second  day,  which  was 


THE  SURPRISE.  133 

passed  in  wandering  through  the  fields  and  along 
the  lanes,  I  made  a  desperate  effort  to  speak  once 
more  on  the  subject  nearest  my  heart.  Aunt  Mar- 
tha came  in  the  little  parlour  up  stairs,  and  seated 
herself  near  to  me  looking  anxiously  in  my  face,  it 
was  a  motherly  tender  look,  and  I  felt  the  tears 
starting  to  my  eyes.  You  are  quite  indisposed,  said 
she,  at  length,  and  I  told  my  brother  that  I  would 
make  so  bold  as  to  ask  you  if  you  had  any  trouble 
that  we  could  relieve,  and  to  say  if  you  are  short  of 
money  that  you  can  stay  here  a  fortnight  or  longer, 
and  never  mind  paying  us  till  you  can  afford  it. 

I  was  truly  grateful  for  this  kindness,  and  of 
course  showed  her  my  pocket  book  full  of  notes. 
"  What  then  ails  you,"  said  she,  "for  it  is  something 
more  than  ill  health.  May  I  guess?"  I  told  her, 
smiling,  that  she  might  guess,  and  if  she  came  near 
the  truth,  and  cou.d  assist  me,  I  should  be  eternally 
grateful. 

"  Well,  then,  I  am  sure  it  is  connected  with  Mr. 
Bewcastle's  niece,  and  if  you  are  the  gentleman  that 
I  have  heard  people  talk  about — are  you  aprinter  ?" 

'•  STes,"  said  I,  "  and  I  am  determined  to  trust  you 
— my  name  is  Parr;  now  tell  me  what  you  have 
heard." 

"  Why,  I  have  heard  that  one  cause  of  the  young 
lady's  aversion  to  this  Mr.  Anglesea,  is  her  love  for 
a  young  printer  by  the  name  of  Parr." 

My  face  was  like  scarlet;  to  hear  this  talked  of 
publicly — to  hear  that  from  others  which  I  would 
give  kingdoms  to  know  was  truth,  rendered  me  al- 
most incapable  of  listening  any  further. 

'•  Well,  you  need  not  answer,"  said  the  kind- 
hearted  woman,  "  I  was  pretty  sure  last  evening, 
that  you  were  the  very  one,  and  now  what  can  I  do 
to  serve  you.  "We  both  love  the  young  lady,  and 
should  be  verv  sorrv  to  see  her  married  to  a  man 
she  dislikes,  particularly  as  she  loves  another." 
"  m  -J 


134  THE  SURPRISE. 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  that,"  said  I, "  there  is  no  reason 
to  say  that,  I  have  not  the  slightest  hope  that  she 
has  any  other  sentiment  for  me  than  friendship.*' 

"No  matter,  no  matter,  you  are  right,"  said  she, 
"  not  to  expect  too  much,  but  if  you  give  me  leave 
I  will  just  let  the  young  lady  know  that  you  are 
here,  and  then  you  can  see  her  yourself;  perhaps 
you  had  better  write  a  few  lines." 

I  thought  so  too,  so  I  went  to  my  room  and 
wrote  as  follows: — 

"  You  will  not  be  surprised,  dearest  lady,  to  hear 
that  I  am  once  more  near  to  you,  nor  will  I  dis- 
guise the  truth,  that  my  intention  is  to  learn  from 
your  own  lips,  whether  my  honest  and  faithful 
love  can  ever  meet  with  favour.  You  spoke  kindly 
in  your  note  to  me,  but  I  had  not  the  presumption 
to  make  any  further  advances  until  my  circum- 
stances were  so  much  improved  that  I  could  orler 
you  competence.  The  anxiety  of  my  mind  has 
preyed  on  my  health,  and  1  am  now7  determined  to 
know  my  fate  at  once,  for  this  suspense  paralyzes 
all  the  energies  of  my  soul. 

"I  learn  that  you  arc  unhappy;  confide  but  in 
me,  give  yourself  up  to  my  devoted  tender  cares, 
and  my  whole  life  shall  be  spent  in  loving  and  pro- 
tecting you.  Be  generous,  and  give  peace  to  my 
heart  by  saying  that  you  will  endeavour  to  return 
my  affection,  at  present  I  ask  no  more. 

"  I  do  not  want  fortune,  indeed  I  should  infinitely 
prefer  that  you  had  not  a  cent  in  the  world;  if  you 
are  not  ambitious  I  have  enough  to  render  you  hap- 
py;  my  income  is  now  nearly  eight  hundred  dollars 
a  year,  and  I  shall  soon  have  it  in  my  power  to  in- 
crease it  to  a  thousand.  I  know  that  your  tastes  are 
simple,  and  with  your  right-mindedness  and  my  un- 
ceasing cares,  you  will  find  enough  for  all  that  is 
desirable.     Dearest   lady,   listen   to    my  entreaties, 


THE  SURPRISE.  135 

and  do  not  drive  me  to  despair  by  doubts,  either  of 
my  love  or  my  ability  to  make  you  happy." 

Martha  Porter  took  this  letter  from  my  trembling 
hand,  and  promising  to  be  back  by  noon,  she  de- 
parted, leaving  me  in  a  state  to  which  I  cannot  look 
back  without  great  pain — the  answer  was  to  seal 
my  fate. 

One  o'clock,  two  o'clock  came;  but  Martha  Por- 
ter did  not  return  ;  1  invented  a  thousand  excuses — 
it  might  have  been  difficull  to  see  the  young  lady 
alone — she  might  be  ill — married — every  thing 
pressed  on  my  burning  brain  at  once,  and  when  poor 
Martha  made  her  appearance  at  last,  I  rushed  up 
to  my  room  unable  to  hear  the  result  of  her  mis- 
sion. 

A  gentle  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  gentle  voice 
as  1  opened  it  brought  some  comfort — Martha's 
face  too  was  in  smiles,  and  a  letter  was  in  her  hand 
— she  saw  that  I  was  stupified,  as  it  were,  and  un- 
aMe  to  ask  questions,  so  she  quietly  laid  the  letter  on 
the  table,  and  closing  the  door,  went  softly  down 
stairs.  Martha,  dear  Martha  Porter,  have  I  not 
been  as  a  son  to  thee  ? 

When  the  tumult  of  my  feelings  subsided  I  ven- 
tured to  open  the  precious  letter;  my  eye  ran  over 
the  lines,  but  the  sense  came  not,  I  did  not  compre- 
hend a  word.  I  sealed  myself  and  prayed  for  com- 
posure, for  my  reason  seemed  departing,  and  as  I 
prayed  rny  strength  returned.  1  am  now  persuaded 
that  it  was  a  sense  of  the  blissful  import  of  the  let- 
ter that  so  completely  unmanned  me,  although  I 
would  not  allow  myself  to  believe  it.  The  blessed 
letter  was  as  follows: 

"  I  am  convinced  of  your  affection  for  me,  I  have 
known  it  for  a  long  time,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  can 
trust  you.  I  am  indeed  very  unhappy  and  with  no 
hope  that  my  uncle  will  ever  cease  his  persecutions ; 


136  THE  SURPRISE. 

but  for  your  generous  letter  I  should  this  day  have 
sent  for  Martha  Porter  to  confide  in  her,  and  to  get 
her  to  go  to  the  city.  Will  you  love  me  the  less 
when  I  say,  that  it  was  to  see  you  and  to  make  my 
situation  known  to  you?  But  do  not  suppose  that 
mere  personal  distress  induces  me  to  throw  myself 
on  your  protection.  1  esteem  you  highly,  and  am 
perfectly  willing  to  share  your  fortune  be  it  what  it 
may.  Perhaps  my  repugnance  to  marry  Mr.  An- 
glesea  would  not  have  been  so  great — perhaps  if  I 
had  never  known  you,  I  should  have  found  less  dif- 
ficulty in  obeying  my  uncle.  You  perceive  that  I 
trust  in  you  entirely." 

It  was  not  till  I  had  read  this  dear  letter  over  and 
over  again  that  I  could  comprehend  the  full  mea- 
sure of  my  felicity;  then  came  a  rush  of  joy,  then 
came  an  exquisite  calm  over  my  troubled  heart.  My 
aspiring  eye  shot  a  quick  glance  over  days  of  hap- 
piness, of  thankfulness,  of  usefulness,  till  my  beloved 
and  I  had  finished  our  duties  on  earth,  and  were 
safely  and  securely  and  for  ever  seated  among  angels 
in  Heaven. 

I  was  in  this  tranquil  yet  exhausted  state  when 
the  kind  Martha  again  came  to  the  door;  she 
thought  by  this  time  that  I  might  be  able  to  hear  the 
particulars  of  her  visit  to  my  angel,  and  confer 
with  me  as  to  the  best  mode  of  proceeding. 

"I  found  her  in  tears,"  said  she,  "which  she  has- 
tily dried  when  I  entered  the  room,  and  after  wel- 
coming me,  she  asked  whether  any  thing  particular 
had  brought  me  to  her.  I  said,  yes,  something  very 
particular  indeed,  but  that  I  did  not  like  to  tell  her 
all  at  once.  'Have  you  a  letter?'  said  she,  and  oh, 
Mr.  Parr,  how  the  dear  young  lady  coloured.  I  told 
her  I  had,  so  I  gave  her  your  letter  and  went  to  the 
window  that  she  might  read  it  unobserved.  She 
wept  a  great  deal  while  reading  it,  and  then  went 


THE  SURPRISE.  137 

immediately  to  the  table  to  answer  it ;  and  when  it 
was  finished,  and  sealed,  she  called  me  to  her. 
'Martha,'  said  she,  again  blushing  up  to  the  tem- 
ples, 'do  you  know  the  persun  who  wrote  this  let- 
ter?' I  told  her  that  1  did.  '  Andean  you  get  this 
conveyed  to  the  gentleman  soon  V  1  looked  at  her 
in  surprise ;  I  found  she  did  not  know  how  near  you 
were  to  her.  'O  yes,'  said  I,  'he  shall  get  it  in  less 
than  ten  minutes,  for  my  dear  young  lady,  he  is  at 
our  house.'  This  threw  her  in  a  great  flutter  and  she 
smiled,  I  suspect  for  the  first  time  in  a  year ;  for  the 
neighbours  say,  and  they  had  it  from  the  servants, 
that  both  the  old  man  and  the  young  one  have  been 
almost  cruel  to  her,  because  she  would  not  consent 
to  the  marriage.  Well,  I  left  her  happy  enough  I 
dare  say,  and  now  what  is  best  to  be  done;  for  old 
Mr.  Bewcastle  will  be  on  the  look-out  now,  and 
who  knows  what  he  may  do  next?" 

I  was  not  slow  in  deciding  on  what  was  best  to 
be  done;  it  was  now  three  o'clock,  and  I  despatched 
Mr.  Porter  to  a  clergyman  living  about  six  miles 
from  us,  requesting  his  attendance  the  next  morning 
at  eleven  o'clock.  Martha  went  to  a  jeweller's  in 
the  village,  and  brought  home  several  gold  rings, 
going  with  them  to  my  dear  angel,  and  carrying 
also  a  letter,  wherein  I  detailed  all  our  plans.  All 
that  a  tender  love,  all  that  a  devoted,  honest  heart 
could  dictate,  was  strongly  urged,  to  reconcile  her 
to  this  precipitous  step,  and  I  had  the  happiness  to 
learn  that  she  gave  herself  up  wholly  to  my 
wishes.  I  arranged  every  thing  as  well  as  the  short 
time  would  allow,  and  aunt  Martha  was  not  idle; 
she  spent  the  evening  with  the  dear  young  lady, 
packing  up  and  preparing  for  her  departure,  ob- 
serving the  utmost  caution  lest  they  might  be  sus- 
pected. I  knew  that  her  uncle  had  no  right  to 
detain  her,  for  she  was  of  age,  and  of  course  her 
own  mistress;  but  we  both  thought  it  better  to  pre- 


138  THE  SURPRISE. 

vent    disagreeable    scenes — scenes    which    might 
delay  our  marriage,  perhaps  prevent  it  altogether. 

The  good  clergyman  came  at  the  appointed 
time,  and  1  went,  as  was  previously  arranged,  in  a 
carriage  to  meet  my  beloved  at  the  head  of  the 
lane  leading  to  the  garden.  She  saw  the  carriage 
at  a  distance  from  her  window,  and  by  the  time  it 
stopped  she  was  at  the  gate.  The  steps  were, 
down;  I  hastened  to  the  dear  creature,  who  trem- 
bled so  much  that  I  was  compelled  to  lift  her  in  the 
carriage  ;  the  door  closed,  and  J  pressed  her  to  my 
heart — that  heart  which  was  filled  with  the  purest 
esteem  and  affection,  an  affection  which  was  to 
endure  for  ever. 

I  entreated  her  to  be  composed,  assuring  her  that 
there  was  nothing  to  fear,  that  in  a  few  moments 
it  would  be  out  of  the  power  of  any  one  to  separate 
us.  I  thanked  her  over  and  over  again  for  thus 
making  me  the  happiest  of  men,  pouring  out  my 
whole  soul  in  words  of  love  and  truth. 

In  a  few  moments  we  stood  before  the  clergy- 
man; our  vows  were  pronounced,  which  with  our 
prayers,  I  trust,  were  registered  in  heaven. 

Behold  me  now,  my  friends;  look  at  the  proud 
and  happy  being;  see  the  swelling  of  his  grateful 
heart.  VVas  this  the  poor,  despised,  forsaken 
orphan,  toiling  through  a  thankless  servitude,  with- 
out a  kind  look  or  a  cheering  word;  without  pity, 
without  a  single  comfort  of  any  kind — suffering 
through  twelve  long  years,  and  with  a  heart 
formed  to  love  and  be  loved  in  return — could  one 
short  year  have  produced  this  blessed  change? 

My  bride! — oh,  what  a  tender  name!  how 
sweetly  it  falls  on  the  ear  of  the  man  of  tender  sen- 
sibility. It  is  a  word  in  common  use;  it  is  heard 
daily;  thousnnds  and  tens  of  thousands  repeat  it; 
in  itself  it  is  nothing;  but  to  the  young  husband, 
when  it  comes  to  be  his  bride,  then  does  the  magic 


THE  SURPRISE.  139 

of  the  name  cast  its  glorious  spell  over  him — it  is 
then  that  he  feels  all  its  beauty  and  its  loveliness. 

"  My  bride  !  thou  art  wholly  mine,  beloved  one," 
said  I ;  "  no  evil  that  I  can  avert  shall  ever  come 
near  thee.  How  is  it  that  the  few  words  which  we 
have  just  uttered  have  given  thee  so  wholly  to  my 
protection?  but  thou  hast  trusted  to  my  strong  arm 
and  to  my  still  stronger  principles  and  feelings,  and 
may  I  perish  if  I  ever  deceive  thee." 

We  spent  three  weeks  in  a  retired  spot  among 
the  Highlands,  each  day  restoring  tranquillity  to  my 
dear  wife,  and  showing  how  infinitely  happier  I 
was  than  my  ardent  fancy  had  ever  contemplated. 
We  talked  over  our  future  prospects,  and  she  drew 
a  scheme  and  decked  it  out  in  such  beautiful 
colours — all,  too,  within  the  compass  of  my  abili- 
ties— that  I  no  longer  feared  she  would  repine  at 
the  contrast  of  the  humble  home  I  could  offer,  and 
that  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed.  We  had  a 
letter  from  our  good  friend,  Martha,  giving  us  an 
account  of  the  consternation  they  were  in  at  Mr. 
Bewcastle's  when  they  read  the  letter  which  I  sent 
to  them  on  the  day  of  our  marriage.  They  sent 
for  her  brother  and  questioned  him  angril}',  threat- 
ening to  prosecute  him  for  allowing  the  ceremony 
to  take  place  in  his  house;  but  he  was  not  to  be 
intimidated,  as  he  told  Mr  Bewcastle,  for  he  knew 
that  the  young  lady  was  of  age.  Martha  pro- 
ceeded to  say,  that  as  it  was  now  exceedingly 
unpleasant  for  them  to  remain  in  their  neighbour- 
hood, they  had  determined  to  sell  their  little  effects 
and  go  to  the  west.  Her  brother  was  to  set  out 
as  soon  as  this  was  settled,  and  she  was  to  remain 
at  lodgings  until  he  had  selected  a  suitable  place, 
his  object  being  to  purchase  a  small  farm. 

Nothing  could  have  happened  to  suit  our  views 
better,  for  in  all  my  dear  wife's  little  plans  there 
would  arise  a  little  distrust  of  herself  when  it  came 


140  THE  SURPRISE. 

to  the  marketing  for  our  little  household,  nnd  now, 
at  the  very  moment,  came  dear  aunt  Martha  to  our 
aid.  We  wrote  immediately,  begging  her  to 
remain  with  us  as  a  friend  as  long  as  it  suited  her 
convenience — nay,  to  live  with  us  always,  if  her 
good  brother  could  do  without  her.  I  told  her  to 
join  us  in  New  York  as  soon  as  their  effects  were 
sold,  and  my  dear  wife  added  a  postscript  longer 
than  my  whole  letter,  telling  her  of  our  happiness, 
and  of  the  little  plans  of  our  future  establishment. 
She  told  her  to  reserve  such  articles  as  might  be 
useful  to  us,  such  as  a  bed  and  bedding,  all  of  which 
we  would  pay  for  as  soon  as  she  came  to  us. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  September  morning  that 
we  arrived  in  New  York.  As  I  had  written  to  the 
good  lady  with  whom  I  lodged,  she  was  prepared 
to  receive  us,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  finding 
that  my  beloved  was  satisfied  with  her  apartments. 
But  the  moment  came  when  I  was  to  leave  her  for 
several  hours — it  would  not  do  to  linger  in  her  dear 
presence  any  longer,  and  she  was  the  first  to  hint 
that  my  duties  must  be  resumed.  To  a  solitary 
creature,  whose  existence  was  wrapped  up  in  this 
one  being,  this  separation,  short  as  it  might  be,  was 
most  painful;  I  bade  her  farewell  over  and  over 
again  without  moving,  having  a  most  horrible  fear 
that  something  or  some  one  would  spirit  her  away 
during  my  absence.  I  was  compelled  at  length  to 
leave  her,  and  I  had  the  folly  to  beg  her  to  lock 
herself  in  the  chamber  until  my  return.  I  smile 
now  while  I  think  of  it,  but  O  what  tenderness 
steals  over  me  when  I  look  back  to  that  dear  one, 
and  recollect  how  sweetly  she  soothed  my  appre- 
hensions, and  how  careful  she  was  not  to  ridicule 
my  weakness. 

I  reported  myself  to  Mr.  Blagge,  who  expressed 
great  pleasure  at  my  return,  complimenting  me  on 
my  improved  looks.     "  I  told  you,"  said  he,  "  that 


THE  SURPRISE.  141 

you  wanted  a  little  country  air;  where  have  you 
been  ?" 

"  I  have  been  amongst  the  Highlands,"  said  I, 
"  and  I  have  brought  back  health,  happiness,  and  a 
wife." 

"  Ah !  that  was  the  trouble,  was  it  V  said  he;  "I 
feared  it  was  a  love  affair,  but  you  are  such  a  shy 
fellow  that  one  cannot  come  at  what  is  passing  in 
your  mind." 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,  you  will  not  find  that  the 
case  any  longer,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  now  carry  my 
heart  in  my  hand." 

"  That  is,"  said  Mr.  Blagge,  "  you  think  you 
will ;  but  excepting  that  your  face  will  be  beaming 
with  pleasure  as  it  does  now,  no  one  will  be  the 
better  of  what  is  going  on  within;  I  know  you 
very  well  now;  you  will  be  more  reserved  than 
ever." 

I  laughed  at  this,  for  I  was  in  fact  at  that  very 
moment  grudging  the  time  1  spent  in  this  little 
friendly  talk,  for  I  wanted  to  be  thinking  of  my 
wife. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Blagge,  "  there  is  a 
letter  for  you  from  your  old  master,  Mr.  Bartlett  ; 
it  came  enclosed  to  me,  and  he  requested  that  it 
might  be  given  to  you  immediately.  Now  as  you 
did  not  let  me  know  where  you  were  going,  I 
could  not  send  it  to  you.  I  suspect  the  good  gen- 
tleman wants  your  services  :  but  you  must  not  leave 
me  now,  Mr.  Parr,  for  I  am  almost  beside  myself 
with  business." 

I  assured  him  that  I  would  not;  and  as  to  Mr. 
Bartlett,  much  as  I  now  desired  an  increase  of  in- 
come I  would  not  live  under  his  chilling  influence, 
different  as  I  was  now  in  circumstances,  for  half 
his  wealth.  I  actually  shuddered  at  the  thoughts 
of  taking  my  wife  to  the  scenes  of  my  melancholy 
servitude. 

n 


142  THE  SURPRISE. 

It  was  curious,  but  the  letter  could  not  be  found  ; 
high  and  low,  in  every  coiner,  on  every  shelf,  did 
we  look,  but  in  vain;  so  we  were  compelled  to  give 
up  the  search.  I  did  not  regret  it  in  the  least,  lor  I 
hud  learned  from  one  of  the  young  men  belonging 
to  Mr.  Bartlett's  office  that  he  intended  to  make  me 
an  offer.  Mr.  Blagge  had  answered  his  letter, 
stating  why  I  did  not  write  myself,  and  as  this 
thing  did  not  concern  me  any  further  I  dismissed 
the  subject  from  my  mind,  not  even  thinking  it 
worth  mentioning  when  I  returned  to  my  wife. 

Every  evening,  the  moment  the  sun  went  down, 
I  returned  to  that  dear,  solitary  one,  and  then  after 
taking  our  supper  we  would  wander  about  from 
place  to  place,  caring  very  little  in  what  direction 
we  strayed.  We  lived  for  ourselves,  and  most 
deeply  and  grutefulJy  did  we  enjoy  the  felicity  of 
being  together  unnoticed  and  unknown.  We  fre- 
quently passed  a  small,  one-storied  brick  building  ;  it 
was  untenanted,  and  had  been  shut  up  for  two  years, 
not  happening  to  suit  any  one.  My  wife  thought, 
if  it  were  repaired  a  little,  it  might  answer  for  a 
dwelling  house,  for  that  a  stack  of  chimneys  could 
soon  be  run  up.  On  inquiry  I  found  that  it  had 
been  built  for  lawyers'  offices  during  the  last  yel- 
low fever  that  had  appeared  in  the  city,  and  that  it 
had  since  that  been  only  used  occasionally  for  a 
school-house. 

There  were  four  very  small  rooms,  only  ten  feet 
square,  with  a  narrow  hall  in  the  centre,  and  nei- 
ther cellar  nor  garret;  but  the  house  stood  among 
trees  and  back  from  the  street,  so  that  this  was  a 
charm  to  counterbalance  many  inconveniences.  I 
saw  the  owner  of  it,  and  he  agreed  to  put  it  in 
repair  provided  I  took  it  on  a  lease  for  four  years; 
this  I  gladly  did;  the  rent  was  to  be  eighty  dollars 
a  year,  and  cheap  enough  we  thought  it,  as  there 
was  a  good  well  of  water  directly  in  front  of  the 


THE  SURPRISE.  143 

house.  Aunt  Martha  came  in  the  precise  moment 
that  she  was  wanted,  and  now  whilst  the  house  was 
being  repaired  there  came  the  pleasant  task  of 
going  from  shop  to  shop  to  purchase  the  tiny  fur- 
niture that  was  to  suit  these  tiny  rooms.  The  front 
one  of  the  left  hand  rooms  was  to  be  used  as  a  bed 
room  for  aunt  Martha,  and  the  one  behind  it  as  a 
kitchen ;  of  the  other  two  the  front  was  to  be  the 
parlour,  and  the  back  one  our  bed  room.  No  one 
can  tell  the  pleasure  I  had  in  hearing  and  seeing 
all  that  was  going  on — 1  had  read  of  going  to  coro- 
nations and  to  brilliant  spectacles,  but  I  hastened 
home  every  evening  with  a  far  more  exquisite  plea- 
sure to  hold  one  end  of  a  breadth  of  carpeting 
whilst  my  dear  wife  cut  it  off,  or  listen  to  her  little 
rambles  with  aunt  Martha,  or  looked  at  the  neat 
candlesticks  and  the  little  set  of  china,  all  so  cheap 
and  yet  so  very  simple  and  pretty. 

By  the  first  of  October  the  house  was  finished 
and  the  smell  of  the  new  paint  entirely  gone;  every 
thing,  therefore,  was  ready,  and  I  had  begged  a 
holiday  that  I  might  assist  in  the  grand  move.  The 
sun  set  gloriously  as  I  walked  out  of  the  orHce,  and 
it  seemed  to  my  joyous  spirit  that  it  smiled  gra- 
ciously as  I  poured  forth  my  grateful  feelings  in 
song.  Only  think  of  the  poor,  broken  down, 
neglected  apprentice,  caroling  along  the  street 
"home,  sweet  home,"  and  having  a  sweet  home  to 
go  to  in  the  bargain.  Fast  as  I  walked  and  quickly 
as  I  reached  our  lodgings,  1  did  not  come  too  soon 
for  my  dear  wife,  for  she  was  expecting  me  at  the 
door  with  hat  and  shawl,  all  equipped  for  a  walk. 

"What!"  said  I,  "dearest,  a  walk  before  tea  ?  or 
is  it  to  be  a  little  shopping  expedition?  here  is  my 
arm  ;  and  which  way  now,  my  life  ?  not  far,  for  I 
think  you  look  fatigued." 

"  Why,  to  tell  the  truth,  Patrick,  dear,  I  am  a 
little  tired,  for  I  have  worked  hard  to-day  that  I 


144  THE  SURPRISE. 

may  enjoy  your  holiday  to-morrow.  I  am  only 
going  to  the  house ;  aunt  Martha  is  there  waiting 
for  us.  And  you  can  be  at  home  to-morrow,  can 
you?  oh,  what  a  day  of  pleasure  it  will  be!  such  a 
day  as  to-morrow  comes  but  once  in  a  married  life, 
dear  husband." 

To  me  every  day  was  one  of  happiness,  and 
with  her  near  me,  even  the  bustle  of  moving  was  a 
pleasant  thing  to  anticipate;  but  in  the  abstract, 
apart  from  the  thought  of  my  wife,  nothing  could 
be  more  irksome  than  the  hurry  of  change.  It  was 
not  far  to  our  new  habitation,  and  in  looking  up 
there  stood  dear  aunt  Martha  at  the  door,  bending 
forward  to  look  for  us. 

"  Walk  in,  walk  in,"  said  she ;  "  walk  in  your 
own  house,  good  folks;  come  and  see  if  every 
thing  is  to  your  liking,  Mr.  Parr,"  and  open  went 
all  the  doors  of  the  four  tiny  rooms. 

It  was,  indeed,  as  my  darling  said,  a  sight  and  a 
feeling  that  came  but  once  in  the  married  life — the 
first  moment  that  the  young  husband  and  his  bride 
put  their  feet  on  the  threshold  of  their  own  house. 
I  have  changed  that  humble  dwelling  for  the 
princely  one  that  I  now  inhabit,  but  that  same  gen- 
tle touch  came  no  more.  My  wife  had  an  instinc- 
tive feeling  that  I  should  be  annoyed  by  the  moving 
and  lifting  and  hurry  of  the  scene,  and  she  and 
Martha  agreed  to  spare  me;  so  there  I  stood,  and 
it  appeared  to  me  that  some  good  fairy  had  been  at 
work,  so  neatly  and  beautifully  every  thing  was 
arranged.  In  the  middle  of  the  little  parlour  stood 
the  tea  table,  and  after  I  had  gone  through  the 
rooms  and  praised  every  thing  over  and  over 
again,  we  sat  down  with  grateful  hearts  to  our 
own  frugal  meal. 

Every  day  my  spirit  rose  higher ;  and  my 
thoughts  grew  loftier  ;  I  did  not  envy  the  greatest 
man  in  existence,  so  many  and  so  varied  were  my 


THE  SURPRISE.  145 

blessings.  Mr.  Blagge  placed  the  most  unlimit- 
ed confidence  in  me ;  and,  as  his  profits  increased 
through  my  exertions,  he  generously  allowed  me 
to  close  my  labours  on  hour  earlier  every  day. 
This  was  a  great  favour;  and  as  the  winter  set  in 
he  moved  the  printing-office  a  great  deal  higher  up, 
so  that  I  had  the  additional  comfort  of  dining  at 
home.  Our  kind  friend,  aunt  Martha,  would  not 
allow  us  to  hire  a  servant,  and  my  wife  took  a 
share  in  the  household  duties,  working  for  me,  keep- 
ing my  drawers  in  order,  and  arranging  every 
thing  in  the  way  she  knew  I  liked.  I  could  not  but 
indulge  her  in  it,  seeing  that  it  gave  her  such  plea- 
sure. 

We  made  no  acquaintances ;  we  wanted  none; 
there  seemed  scarcely  time  enough  for  ourselves; 
and  why  should  we  be  troubled  with  strangers  ? 
Martha,  seeing  the  innocent  life  we  led,  became 
sincerely  attached  to  us;  promising  never  to  leave 
us;  and  thus  passed  the  first  winter  of  my  married 
life.  We  were  all  happy.  My  dear  wife  was  as 
cheerful  as  a  bird ;  and,  at  times,  when  I  was  par- 
ticularly weary — too  weary  to  read,  or  even  to 
listen  to  her  reading — she  would  put  away  her 
little  work-basket,  set  the  candle  in  the  farthest 
corner,  and  draw  her  chair  close  to  mine,  charm- 
ing away  my  fatigue  with  her  clear  soft  voice  and 
gentle  endearments.  She  had  bright  visions  of  the 
future  ;  and  they  always  ended  as  she  knew  I  wish- 
ed, in  our  purchasing  the  little  estate  on  which  I 
was  born.  How  delightful  it  is  to  listen  to  the  little 
nothings  of  a  sensible  woman;  one  that  loves  us 
too. 

This  was  the  way  that  heaven  rewarded  me  for 
all  that  I  had  endured  ;  and  the  reward  came  to  me 
in  such  a  shape  too — a  wife!  I  spoke  of  the  rap- 
turous feelings  of  a  young  husband,  at  the  mention 
of  his  bride,  but  thev  are  nothing  in  comparison  to 
n  2 


146  THE  SURPRISE. 

those  he  has  when  she  is  called  his  wife — when  the 
quiet  evenings  of  winter  bring  him  for  ever  near 
her;  when  he  listens  to  her  innocent  conversation, 
full  of  love,  and  care,  and  thoughtfulness — all  for 
him.  I  often  wondered  whether  all  men  loved  their 
wives  as  I  loved  mine.  There  was  no  way  in  which 
I  could  judge,  for  I  had  never  been  even  in  the 
same  room  with  a  husband  and  wife ;  but  I  had 
read  of  disagreements,  and  hatreds,  and  separa- 
tions. It  had  given  me  great  uneasiness  before  my 
marriage ;  but  I  always  took  the  side  of  the  wife, 
wondering  why  the  man  wanted  to  have  his  own 
way,  in  the  merest  trifles  too.  As  to  me,  every  thing 
my  wife  or  Martha  did,  seemed  the  very  best  thing 
to  be  done;  I  was  sure  that  their  taste  and  judg- 
ment were  more  to  be  depended  upon  than  mine; 
particularly  as  it  related  to  household  economy. 

And  then,  was  I  not  to  be  envied  when,  with  the 
dear  creature's  arm  linked  in  mine,  we  walked  out 
either  for  exercise  or  business  ?  A  man  never  feels 
his  power  and  responsibility  so  strongly  as  when 
a  lovely  woman  leans  on  him  for  support,  and  re- 
lies on  his  courage  and  his  ability  to  protect  her. 
What  a  delightful  sensation  comes  over  a  man 
•when  he  knows  that  there  is  one  being  in  the  world 
who  trusts  to  him  entirely,  and  looks  up  to  him  as 
the  first  and  the  best — none  but  a  husband  can  have 
this  feeling — he  enjoys  it  as  long  as  life  continues; 
it  is  a  pleasure  of  which  he  never  wearies. 

May  came,  with  all  its  pleasantness  and  its  flow- 
ers, and  our  love  for  one  another  made  every  thing 
appear  in  the  gayest  and  brightest  colours.  Nothing 
could  be  more  inconvenient  than  our  house ;  no- 
thing could  be  more  irksome  than  my  occupation 
— the  dullest  of  all  dull  employment,  correcting 
proofs — yet  it  was  for  me  that  my  wife  overlooked 
the  privations  and  difficulties  she  had  to  encounter 
from  a  limited  income  and  a  house  of  such  diminu- 


. 


THE  SURPRISE.  147 

•ove  size — and  it  was  for  her  that  I  continued  to 
drudge  on,  monotonously,  without  a  thought  of 
change.  My  wife  was  far  more  prudent  and  eco- 
nomical than  I  was  ;  that  is,  in  every  thing  that  re- 
lated to  herself.  I  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of 
buying  her  all  the  delicate  fruits  and  early  vegeta- 
bles of  the  season ;  and  I  had  great  pleasure  in 
taking  all  sorts  of  little  pretty  table  ornaments  and 
delicate  perfumes,  and  prints,  and  books;  in  short, 
I  scarcely  went  home  without  something  in  my 
hand. 

"  My  dear  husband,"  said  she  one  evening,  when 
I  came  home  with  a  present  as  usual,  "have  you 
found  Aladdin's  lamp,  that  you  are  so  lavish  of 
your  money  ?  You  will  have  to  put  a  rein  on  your 
generous  nature,  for  instead  of  laying  up  two  hun- 
dred dollars  this  year,  as  we  intended,  there  will  be 
nothing  left.  Come,  dearest,  and  look  over  this  little 
statement  with  me,  and  then  say  whether  Ave  should 
not  retrench?  The  worst  of  it,  to  me,  dearest,  is 
the  knowledge  that  the  two  hundred  dollars  have 
been  expended  for  my  gratification :  you  have  hard- 
ly allowed  yourself  any  thing;  I  must  put  a  stop  to 
your  dear  generous  spirit;  aunt  Martha  and  I  have 
talked  quite  seriously  about  it." 

I  promised  to  be  more  prudent  for  the  future; 
and  if  there  ever  was  any  thing  trying  to  my  tem- 
per it  was  the  inability  to  purchase  such  little  arti- 
cles of  luxury  as  I  thought  my  wife  ought  to  have. 
Mr.  Blagge,  however,  true  to  his  promise,  raised 
my  salary  to  a  thousand  dollars;  and  with  this  wel- 
come news  I  could  not  refrain  from  buying  a 
pretty  little  set  of  chess  men  ;  for  my  wife  had  a 
great  desire  to  teach  me  to  play  the  game ;  and  so, 
after  telling  her  of  the  addition  to  our  income,  I 
gave  her  the  chess  men  and  board.  I  thought  to 
make  it  the  more  welcome  by  hinting  to  her  that  it 
was  for  myself.     The  dear  creature  smiled   and 


148  THE  SURPRISE. 

shook  her  head.  "  Ah,  my  husband,"  said  she,  "  you 
think  you  have  found  out  a  new  way  of  indulging 
me;  but  I  am  not  to  be  taken  in.  Do  you  think  I 
don't  know  that  you  have  no  particular  fancy  for 
games  of  any  sort;  and  that  the  chess  men  are  to 
give  me  pleasure?  But  I  shall  punish  you  by  sit- 
ting down  to  the  game  this  evening  in  good  earnest; 
you  will  soon  tire  of  it,  however." 

In  this  way  our  evenings  passed  ;  part  of  them 
in  playing  at  chess,  in  which  I  soon  became  in- 
terested, as  I  had  such  a  pleasant  teacher;  and  in 
part,  in  studying  the  German  language.  We  had 
a  German  in  the  office,  who  taught  me  the  pronun- 
ciation, and  what  he  taught  me  in  the  morning  I 
transferred  to  my  wife  in  the  evening;  and  it  was 
really  wonderful  to  find  how  quickly  she  conquered 
all  the  difficulties.  But  if  it  was  wonderful  that  she 
acquired  this  language  in  so  short  a  time,  I  could 
not  but  feel  surprised  that  nothing  was  neglected  ; 
there  seemed  to  be  time  for  every  thing;  and  she 
was  always  ready  for  a  walk;  always  in  time,  and 
always  neatly  dressed.  What  a  happy  fellow  I  was, 
to  have  no  care  of  my  wardrobe;  I,  that  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  have  a  button  to  my  collar  or 
wristbands. 

I  thought  that  no  event,  could  make  her  dearer  to 
me  than  she  now  was;  but  there  did  come  the  time 
when  I  found  that,  ardently  as  I  loved  her,  my  ten- 
derness and  my  cares  were  still  more  strongly  ex- 
cited ;  but  they  came  coupled  with  such  apprehen- 
sions that  I  watched  over  her  with  mingled  emo- 
tions of  joy  and  fear.  It  was  now  that  I  saw  the 
necessity  of  prudence  and  economy;  and  I  could 
not  but  hope  that  some  means  might  be  found  by 
which  my  salary  would  be  increased;  for  1  desired, 
of  all  things,  to  place  my  dear  wife  in  a  more  com- 
fortable house.  Mr.  Blagge  had,  I  knew,  done  his 
very  best  in  allowing  me  two  hundred  dollars  a 


THE  SURPRISE.  149 

year  more,  so  I  could  not  expect  any  thing  from 
him ;  but  I  thought  there  might  be  ways  to  make 
money  independently  of  the  office.  Perhaps  I  might 
write  for  the  magazines ;  or  who  knows  whether 
I  might  not  write  a  saleable  book.  It  was  in  vain 
that  my  wife  discouraged  me.  It  was  in  vain  that 
she  assured  me  the  want  of  a  cellar  was  nothing, 
as  the  grocer,  at  the  corner,  supplied  her  with  every 
thing  from  day  to  day;  and  that  the  little  cabin 
rooms  were  quite  large  enough ;  and  that  larger 
ones  would  but  increase  her  labours. 

I  mentioned  that  Mr.  Bartlett  had  written  to  me 
under  cover  to  Mr.  Blagge,  but  as  the  letter  had 
been  mislaid,  I  knew  nothing  of  the  contents.  It 
struck  me  that  he  had  made  me  an  offer  of  partner- 
ship; and  what  I  then  shuddered  at,  seemed  not  so 
very  bad  a  thing  now  that  I  had  such  an  endearing 
prospect  before  me.  I  mentioned  it  to  my  wife, 
and  she  was  surprised  that  I  had  not  written  to  Mr. 
Bartlett;  but  I  told  her,  that  as  Mr.  Blagge  had 
said  to  him,  that  he  would  give  me  the  letter  as 
soon  as  I  returned  from  the  country,  I  thought  there 
was  no  use  in  saying  any  thing  further,  for  I  did 
not  intend  to  avail  myself  of  any  offer  he  might 
make. 

"  O,  but,  Patrick,  my  love,"  said  she,  "the  let- 
ter might  relate  to  your  friends  in  Scotland ;  nay, 
I  dare  to  say  it  did,  for  Mr.  Bartlett,  cold  and  heart- 
less as  he  is,  has  some  sense  of  honour  and  honesty. 
He  never  would  have  made  you  an  offer,  however 
advantageous,  whilst  you  were  employed  by  Mr, 
Blagge;  all  that  you  tell  me  of  him  proves  this. 
Do  you  not  think,  dearest,  that  you  had  better  write 
to  him  ?" 

This  shows  how  much  more  acute  a  woman's 
intellect  is  than  ours  ;  I  never  so  much  as  dreamed 
of  my  old  uncle  Parr  in  Scotland;  and  now  it  al- 
most amounted  to  conviction,  that  the  letter  related 


150  THE  SURPRISE. 

to  him.  I  questioned  Mr.  Blagge  respecting  the 
letter,  and  he  said,  that  as  far  as  his  recollection 
served,  it  appeared  to  be  a  double  one,  and  he  was 
quite  surprised  to  find  that  I  had  not  written.  There 
was  no  doubt  on  his  mind  that  the  letter  was  still 
amongst  the  papers,  and  he  proposed  another 
search,  particularly  as  there  were  two  or  three 
boxes  that  had  not  been  opened  since  the  office  was 
removed,  and  he  advised  me  to  look  there.  We 
opened  the  boxes  and  assorted  the  papers;  they 
were  principally  old  manuscripts  and  the  corre- 
spondence relating  to  them  ;  but  my  letter  did  not 
appeal-.  Just  as  we  had  gone  through  the  last  box, 
one  of  the  clerks  lifted  up  an  old  black  morocco 
portfolio,  which  lay  at  the  bottom,  and  as  he  slap- 
ped off  the  dust  a  letter  flew  out  and  fell  near  Mr. 
Blagge.  The  moment  he  saw  the  letter  the  whole 
thing  flashed  across  his  mind.  That  one  reminded 
him  of  mine,  and  he  now  recollected  that  he  had 
put  it  along  with  several  others  in  this  very  letter 
book.  Sure  enough,  there  it  was,  unsealed,  just  as 
it  came  from  the  post-man;  but  as  it  was  quite 
dark,  I  hurried  home,  lest  my  wife  should  feel  un- 
easy at  my  protracted  stay:  in  truth,  I  met  her  at 
the  door  with  her  hat  on,  intending  to  walk  down 
to  the  office,  with  Martha,  to  see  what  had  detain- 
ed me. 

Martha  brought  the  candle,  and  then  a  little 
doubt  arose  as  to  who  should  read  the  letter  first; 
but  Martha  decided  in  my  wife's  favour.  "  She 
can  bear  good  or  bad  news  better  than  you,  Mr. 
Parr,"  said  the  good  woman,  "  and  if  the  news  is 
good,  why,  she  will  break  it  to  you  by  degrees,  and 
you  will  not  be  set  all  on  a  tremble;  and  if  it  is 
bad  news,  such  as  the  loss  of  your  money  in  the 
Savings  Bank,  or  the  mortgage" — Heavens,  I  had 
never  thought  of  this — "  why  she  will  teach  you 
to  bear  it."   My  darling,  therefore,  opened  the  now 


THE  SURPRISE.  151 

dreaded  letter;  but  you  may  judge  of  her  astonish- 
ment when  she  read  as  follows — 

"  Sir — Yesterday  I  received  by  the  packet  ship 
Monongahela,  the  following  letter,  enclosed  in  one 
directed  to  me;  mine,  I  presume,  was  a  copy  of 
yours  ;  by  it  you  perceive  that  your  uncle  is  dead, 
and  that  you  are  the  sole  heir  to  his  estate,  pro- 
vided you  go  to  Glasgow  and  identify  yourself  be- 
fore the  month  of  October — next  October  year.  I 
had  intended  to  write  to  you  on  my  own  account, 
offering  you  a  third  partnership  in  our  concern,  but 
I  presume  this  piece  of  good  fortune  will  make  it 
unnecessary  for  you  to  toil  at  your  profession." 

1  sat  watching  my  wife's  countenance,  as  did 
our  good  Martha  likewise,  and  we  saw  her  change 
colour,  first  pale  and  then  red ;  but  she  did  no* 
speak  until  the  letter  was  folded  and  in  her  bosom. 
"  Patrick,  love,"  said  she,  "  what  month  is  this  V' 
I  told  her  it  was  July — the  first  of  July.  "Oh  my," 
said  she,  "  then  we  have  no  time — it  will  all  be  lost 
— July,  August,  September;  only  three  months — 
but  come,  here  is  the  tea  ;  let  us  drink  it  first,  other- 
wise some  people  may  forget  to  eat — aunt  Martha, 
I  know  you  wiii  not  get  a  wink  of  sleep  to-night; 
I  shall  sleep  as  sound  as  a  top,  as  I  always  do — and 
you,  dearest,  you  will  have  golden  dreams;  oh, 
what  a  fine  house  you  will  build  at  Camperdown  ; 
and  how  snugly  uncle  Porter  will  be  ensconced  in 
the  little,  neat,  comfortable  stone  house;  and  dear 
aunt  Martha,  what  a  glorious  south  room  you  are 
to  have  on  the  first  floor,  along  with  us;  and  oh, 
what  planning  and  what  perplexities  we  shall  be  in 
for  the  next  two  years.  Why,  Mr.  Bartlett  has 
made  a  most  princely  offer." 

And  thus  the  dear  creature  went  on,  leading  me 
to  believe  that  the  good  news  related  to  him;  but 
aunt  Martha  knew  better.  So,  when  tea  was  over, 
and  she  was  seated  on  my  knee,  J  heard  the  whole 


152  THE  SURPRISE. 

truth.  I  pressed  her  to  my  bosom  in  an  ecstasy,  at 
the  thought  of  placing  her  in  affluence;  but  too  soon 
came  the  reflection,  that  the  ocean  must  be  crossed 
before  this  desirable  event  could  take  place.  Sleep, 
dream,  did  she  say?  not  I;  no  sleep  nor  dreams  for 
me ;  but  she,  the  dear  creature,  with  a  mind  so 
justly  balanced,  and  thinking  nothing  an  evil  that 
was  to  save  me  from  anxiety  ;  she  slept  like  a  top, 
as  she  said  she  would.  It  was  aunt  Martha  that 
had  the  dreams  all  to  herself. 

Mr.  Blagge  expressed  both  joy  and  sorrow ;  joy 
at  my  good  fortune,  and  sorrow  at  parting  with 
me.  He,  too,  he  said,  intended  to  offer  me  better 
terms  the  next  year  ;  perhaps  an  equal  partnership; 
so  that  if  the  event  did  not  equal  our  expectations 
I  had  two  means  of  advancement,  and  I  need  not 
say  that  my  choice  would  have  fallen  upon  Mr. 
Blagge.  He  never,  for  a  moment,  thought  there 
could  be  a  doubt  on  my  mind  as  to  the  propriety  of 
going  to  Scotland;  and  I  absolutely  hated  him  for 
the  ease  with  which  he  discussed  the  subject ;  just  as 
if  there  were  to  be  no  fears,  no  struggles.  When  I 
went  home,  there  was  my  dear  wife,  looking  calm, 
and  receiving  me  cheerfully,  but  with  an  inquiring 
eye;  and  there  sat  aunt  Martha,  ready  for  a  thou- 
sand questions,  and  with  a  thousand  observations. 

Long  and  painfully  did  the  subject  occupy  me; 
I  said  nothing,  but  my  dear  wife  left  off  her  inter- 
esting needlework  and  employed  herself  in  pre- 
paring for  the  voyage.  As  I  had  not  made  up  my 
mind  whether  I  would  go  at  all,  the  point  of  her 
going  with  me  had  not  been  discussed,  and  I  sat 
with  a  stupid  wonder  looking  at  certain  dresses 
which  she  and  Martha  were  making,  and  at  certain 
convenient  caps  that  were  to  suit  both  the  cabin 
and  deck.  They  talked  and  they  chatted  on,  and 
congratulated  themselves  that  the  smallness  of  the 
ship's  cabin,  would  not  be  an  inconvenience,  seeing 


THE  SURPRISE.  153 

that  they  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  our  small 
rooms. 

I  still  went  daily  to  the  office  as  if  nothing  had 
occurred,  but  my  mind  was  in  a  terrible  state.  To 
go,  and  leave  my  wife  to  the  mercy  of  strangers, 
and  at  such  an  interesting  time  too,  was  very  pain- 
ful; to  take  her  with  me  was  to  expose  her  to  cer- 
tain danger,  for  if  there  were  no  storms,  no  ship- 
wrecks, yet  sea-sickness  might  prove  fatal.  When 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  take  her  I  reproached  my- 
self as  being  the  most  selfish  of  mortals,  and  when 
I  finally  concluded  to  leave  her  behind,  her  death 
knell  rung  in  my  ears.  Most  sincerely  did  I  wish 
that  the  hated  letter  had  never  been  found.  It 
became  at  length  the  subject  of  discussion,  that  is, 
with  me.  My  opinion  was  asked  on  several  points, 
and  answers  were  wrung  from  me;  but  there 
seemed  one  thing  certain  in  my  wife's  mind,  that 
although  I  might  not  decide  on  her  going  with  me, 
yet  I  could  not  but  choose  to  go.  She  never  ques- 
tioned it. 

I  fell  to  reading  the  biography  of  voyagers  to 
see  how  the  females  of  their  party  bore  the  perils 
of  the  sea,  and  then  I  made  many  inquiries  as  to 
their  perils  on  shore,  even  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
husband  to  sustain  them.  Recollect,  my  friends, 
that  this  beloved  being  was  my  only  tie  on  earth, 
and  that  without  her,  existence  would  be  a  burden. 
I  was  not  going  rashly  to  decide  on  her  fate  and 
mine  ;  it  was  therefore  but  consistent  with  the  love 
I  bore  her  to  weigh  well  the  difficulties  on  either 
side.  She,  too,  had  thought  of  every  thing,  and 
her  mind  was  made  up  at  once — and  that  was  to 
go  with  me.  "I  have  but  this  to  say,  dearest 
husband,"  said  she  at  the  beginning,  and  her  mind 
underwent  no  change,  "  if  we  are  permitted  to  go 
safely,  we  shall  be  a  comfort  to  one  another 
throughout  the  voyage  and  on  shore ;  but  if  other- 
o 


151  THE  SURPRISE. 

wise — if  the  sea  is  to  be  our  grave,  then  we  shall 
perish  together;  I  could  not  survive  your  loss,  and 
you,  dearest" — 

I  never  could  let  her  proceed  further;  as  to  live 
without  her  seemed  a   thing  impossible.     At  such 
times  I  seemed  to  yield  assent,  and  began  to  make 
preparations;  but  having  read  an  account  of  the 
illness  and  death  of  a  lady  on  her  passage  across 
the  Atlantic,  I  determined  at  once,  if  the    going 
was    insisted    upon,  that  1    would   let   her  remain 
behind.     Then  again,  if  I  saw  in   the  papers  the 
death  of  a  young  mother,  I  repented  of  my  former 
decision;  and  in  this  miserable  state  of  mind  I  was 
during    the    whole    month    of   July.     August    still 
found  me  irresolute;  but  I  had  only  two  weeks  left 
to  waver,  for  there  would  then  be  but  little  time 
left  to  come  within  the  limits  of  the  bequest.     There 
were  but  six  weeks  from  that  time  to  the  first  of 
October;  it  therefore  became  necessary  to  bring 
my  mind  to  the  painful  decision  of  leaving  my  wife 
behind.     I  wrote  to  Mr.  Porter,  entreating  him  to 
come  immediately,  and  remain  in  the  house  during 
my   absence.     I    saw    an   eminent  physician,  and 
interested  him  in  such  a  way  that  I  was  sure  he 
would  never  let  a  day  pass  without  paying  her  a 
visit,  whether  she  were  indisposed  or  not;  and  I 
took  every  precaution,  in  short,  that  love  and  pru- 
dence could  dictate  to  make  her  comfortable  and 
happy. 

How  she  bore  with  all  this  nervous,  morbid 
irritability,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  never  by  word  or 
look  did  she  betray  any  impatience  ;  her  sole. object 
was  to  sooth  me  and  make  light  of  her  own  suf- 
ferings. She  promised  to  take  great  care  of  her 
health,  and  Martha  exhausted  words  in  her  desire 
to  set  my  mind  at  rest.  Mr.  Porter  declared  she 
should  never  be  out  of  his  thoughts,  and  Mr. 
Blagge  promised  to  take  his  wife  and  daughter  to 


THE  SURPRISE.  155 

her  the  day  after  I  should  sail.  But  all  this  was 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  in  my  estimation,  when 
I  considered  how  much  more  than  ail  this  I  could 
do  for  her  were  I  near  her  mysejf. 

The  time  came  at  last;  Mr.  Blagge  had  taken 
my  passage,  and  my  trunk  had  gone  to  the  ship. 
I  had  been  to  get  some  necessary  papers  of  the 
British  consul,  and  was  hastening  home — that  home 
where  I  had  enjoyed  such  exquisite  happiness — 
like  a  fool  I  was  leaving  it — for  what? — for  an  un- 
certain good — and  when  I  returned,  if  Providence 
permitted  me  to  return,  might  I  not  find  that  dear 
and  cherished  spot  desolate !  Whilst  I  was  thus 
tormenting  myself  with  these  fearful  fancies,  the 
funeral  of  a  lady  passed  me  ;  she  had  been  married 
at  the  same  time  with  us,  and  she  had  died  of 
inflammation  of  the  lungs.  I  inquired  of  a  person 
who  was  acquainted  with  her,  and  I  found  that  she 
had  taken  cold  from  sitting  in  the  draft  of  two 
doors,  and,  he  added,  the  room  was  very  small,  so 
that  there  was  no  avoiding  the  exposure — the  very 
situation  in  which  I  had  left  my  dear  wife  only  an 
hour  before ! 

Of  course  I  hastened  home  with  greater  speed 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  little  parlour  with  the 
dismal  feelings  that  I  came  too  late.  But  she  had 
removed  to  the  window,  and  the  sash  was  down. 
Oh,  how  I  blessed  her  for  this  act  of  prudence. 
She  saw  my  nervous  apprehension  and  asked  what 
had  thus  disturbed  me,  and  finding  my  fears  ground- 
less I  was  ashamed  to  tell  her  the  cause.  She 
looked  earnestly  at  me  and  said,  "  My  dear  hus- 
band, you  are  wearing  yourself  out  with  fears  and 
anxieties;  I  am  well,  and  with  the  blessing  of 
Providence  I  hope  so  to  remain;  nay,  I  am  strong 
enough  to  encounter  the  voyage,  much  more  able 
to  bear  it  than  you  are  with  your  excited  feelings. 
There  are  our  trunks,  Martha's  and  mine,  readv 


156  THE  5URPRI5L. 

packed,  and  we  are  only  hoping  and  waiting  for 
your  assent  to  go  with  you  ;  so,  dearest,  knowing 
how  unhappy  you  will  be  to  leave  me  behind,  even 
let  me  go.  I  shall  not  urge  you  any  further,  my 
love,  but  think  oi'it  this  evening,  and  we  shall  have 
time  in  the  morning  to  get  ready  what  little  remains 
to  be  done.  Now  throw  all  care  from  your  mind 
and  let  us  sit  down  cheerfully  to  our  supper ;  depend 
upon  it  we  shall  be  sitting  here  together  this  day 
four  months  laughing  and  talking  over  our  present 
anxieties." 

Laugh,  indeed,  thought  I;  there  never  can 
come  a  time  when  I  shall  laugh  at  what  I  am 
now  feeling  so  keenly.  But  I  cast  all  selfishness 
aside,  and  determined  to  go  alone  as  the  lesser 
evil  of  the  two,  going  over  and  over  again  the 
whole  argument,  and  more  fully  convinced  that 
although  it  was  most  painful  to  leave  her,  yet 
it  would  be  cruel  and  presumptuous  to  make 
her  encounter  the  risks  of  a  sea  voyage.  I  had 
but  little  sleep  this  last  night;  but  my  dear  wife, 
after  vainly  endeavouring  to  prevail  on  me  to 
court  repose,  fell  asleep  like  an  infant  and  slept 
soundly  till  morning.  She  suffered  as  acutely  as  I 
did,  but  her  nervous  temperament  was  of  a  less 
irritable  cast;  her  sensibilities  were  more  equally 
balanced.  A  knowledge  of  this  always  gave  me 
comfort. 

The  dreaded  morning  came ;  all  was  hurry  and 
bustle,  and  of  course  but  little  time  for  conversa- 
tion. The  trunks  still  stood  in  the  room  ;  mine  had 
gone  the  day  before,  and  I  cast  a  look  at  them,  and 
then  on  my  wife,  who,  pale  as  death,  was  looking 
at  the  carriage  that  was  to  convey  me  to  the  boat. 
She  saw  my  look  and  said,  "  I  may  go  then,  dear 
husband,  you  consent  then  that  we  shall  go  ?"  But 
I  shut  my  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  temptation, 
and  shook  my  head.  "  Put  the  trunks  out  of  the 
room,  Mr.  Porter,"  said  I,  "  for  I  shall  be  tormented 


THE  SURPRISE.  157 

with  the  desire  to  take  her  with  me,  and  that  I 
ought  not  to  do;  I  must  not  waver  any  more,  or  I 
shall  be  unable  to  go  at  all.  The  trunks  were 
removed,  and  my  dear  wife  seated  herself  and 
sighed.  "  But  why  do  not  you  and  Martha  accom- 
pany me  to  the  wharf?"  said  I — "  perhaps  we  shall 
feel  the  parting  less.  There  will  be  no  time  for  any 
thing  there  but  gelting  on  board.  Do  you  think, 
Maitha,  that  she  can  bear  it?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  dare  say  she  can,"  said  Martha,  "  and 
I  am  sure  it  will  do  her  good,  and  we  can  keep  the 
carriage  for  an  hour  or  so  and  take  a  little  ride,  for 
she  has  sat  too  much  at  her  needle  lately.  Brother, 
do  you  get  another  carriage  for  us,  and  let  them  go 
together;  Mr.  Parr  will  feel  the  better  for  having 
her  all  to  himself.  We  can  return  with  her,  you 
know." 

I  was  thankful  for  being  a  few  minutes  longer 
with  my  beloved,  and  I  hoped  that  we  might 
remain  at  the  wharf  an  hour  at  least,  as  it  was 
now  only  nine  o'clock.  We  thought  it  best  to  go, 
however,  as  the  wind  was  fair,  and  the  captain 
might  be  anxious  to  sail ;  so  we  entered  the  car- 
riage, leaving  Martha  to  come  with  her  brother. 
We  drove  slowly  to  the  wharf,  and  there  the  first 
person  we  saw  was  Mr.  Blagge,  who  had  kindly 
come  to  see  me  oft'.  My  dear  wife  drew  back  in 
the  carriage  and  begged  that  he  might  not  see  her, 
so  I  went  to  him  and  thanked  him  for  this  proof  of 
his  friendship,  and  again  entreated  him  to  remem- 
ber how  essential  it  was  to  my  peace  of  mind  that 
he  should  do  all  in  his  power  to  lessen  my  wife's 
anxieties — if  I  could  not  ask  a  favour  for  myself,  I 
would  for  this  dear  one. 

Mr.  Porter  came  to  us  and  said  that  they  had 

better  return,  as  the  horses  were  restless  and  Mrs. 

Parr  might  get  frightened.     Mr.  Blagge  thought  so 

too,  and  blamed  me  for  bringing  her  down  to  a 

o2 


158  THE  SURPRISE. 

scene  of  so  much  confusion;  so  I  hastily  snatched 
one  kiss,  pressed  her  dear  hand  as  she  held  it  out 
to  me  after  the  door  was  closed,  and  she  and  Mar- 
tha disappeared  from  my  sight. 

What  Mr.  Blagge  said  to  me  I  don't  know,  but  I 
now  and  then  heard  the  sounds  of  new  publica- 
tions, and  letters,  and  manuscripts,  but  I  could  only 
dwell  on  the  grief  that  my  poor  wife  was  now  in ; 
it  was  too  much  to  expect  I  could  listen  to  him  on 
such  uninteresting  subjects;  why  did  he  not  talk  of 
what  he  knew  was  the  only  feeling  of  my  mind? — 
and  to  hold  me  by  the  arm  too,  lest  I  should  get 
away.  The  steamboat,  however,  called  ail  hands 
aboard,  and  passengers  with  all  their  friends 
jumped  on  board  to  go  to  the  ship,  which  lay  in  the 
stream.  I  made  a  move  to  go  also,  but  the  captain, 
coming  up  at  the  instant,  told  me  he  would  give  me 
ten  minutes  longer,  as  he  had  to  see  a  man  on  busi- 
ness, and  that  I  could  go  with  him  in  the  ship's  boat 
which  lay  there  ready  for  him.  The  steamboat 
left  the  wharf,  and  Mr.  Blagge  talked  on;  I  never 
knew  him  so  loquacious  before,  and  he  kept  jerking 
me  around  as  if  the  nervousness  under  which  I 
was  labouring  had  imparted  itself  to  his  arm. 

At  length  the  captain  returned,  and  Mr.  Blagge, 
shaking  hands  with  me,  promised  to  look  most 
carefully — and,  he  added  with  strong  emphasis — 
most  affectionately,  after  all  the  concerns  I  left 
behind.  The  oars  cut  the  water,  and  as  soon  as 
we  were  on  board  the  captain  gave  orders  for  sail- 
ing. The  steamboat  was  just  departing,  and  on 
turning  my  eye  towards  it  I  saw  poor  Mr.  Porter. 
I  called  out  to  him  that  I  was  safely  on  board,  most 
thankful  that  he  had  seen  me,  for  what  would  have 
been  the  agony  of  my  dear  wife  if  he  had  returned 
and  reported  that  the  vessel  had  sailed  without  me. 
He  entered  the  boat,  thought  I,  with  the  intention 
of  seeing  me  safely  to  the  ship ;  his  consternation 


THE  SURPRISE.  159 

must  have  been  great  when  I  was  not  to  be  found 
amongst  the  passengers.  He  waved  his  hat,  how- 
ever, on  seeing  me  as  I  bent  over  the  side  of  the 
vessel,  and  pressing  his  hand  to  his  heart  he  pointed 
towards  the  shore — it  told  me  that  he  intended  to 
fulfil  his  promise  of  guarding  well  the  sacred  trust 
I  had  confided  to  him. 

Through  the  narrows  and  out  in  the  broad  ocean 
we  soon  were;  but  I  stood  immovable  with  my 
eyes  turned  to  that  dear  shore  where  all  my  hopes 
were  centred.  I  could  not  realize  it — what!  volun- 
tarily to  leave  the  only  creature  on  earth  to  whom 
I  was  attached? — she,  too,  who  had  chosen  me 
when  poor  and  unknown.  Could  I  not  be  content 
with  the  independence  that  my  own  honest  labour 
procured,  but  must  I  show  how  much  more  I  va- 
lued money  than  the  pains  to  us  both  of  such  a 
bitter  separation — a  separation  that  might  be  for 
ever!  Before  the  pilot  left  us  I  had  serious  thoughts 
of  returning  with  him  ;  but  the  captain  was  at  my 
eibow,  and  assuming  a  kind  of  authority;  I  was 
forced  to  see  him  depart  without  me.  The  wind 
blew  fresh,  and  before  night  there  was  a  heavy 
gale  ;  yet  I  cared  not,  my  feelings  were  too  strong 
even  for  that  to  subdue.  I  could  not  go  down  to 
dinner,  nor  was  I  disposed  to  sit  with  strangers  at 
the  supper  table;  but  the  captain  showed  so  much 
good  natured  solicitude  that  I  yielded  and  took  my 
seat  beside  him. 

I  do  not  recollect  now  how  many  of  the  passen- 
gers were  at  supper,  but  they  were  not  all  there, 
for  some  were  already  seasick  and  in  their  berths. 
I  only  remember  that  opposite  to  me  sat  a  young 
lady  who  looked  at  me  very  frequently,  and  who 
could  scarcely  keep  from  laughing,  although  the  gen- 
tleman next  her  reprimanded  her  once  or  twice  for 
her  ill  breeding.  I  could  not  imagine  what  had 
caused  her  mirth,   unless  it  were  the  melancholy 


160  THE  SUHPRISE. 

expression  of  my  countenance.  There  was  not 
much  time,   however,  to  speculate  on  any  thing, 

for  the  gale  increased  and  every  body  on  board 
became  anxious  and  watchful.  The  captain  ad- 
vised me  to  go  to  bed,  but  I  chose  rather  to  remain 
on  deck,  hoping  that  if  there  were  any  danger  I 
might  be  of  some  use.  Just  as  1  was  leaving  the 
cabin  I  heard  the  laughing  lady  say  to  her  com- 
panion, "  I  am  glad  he  is  going  on  deck,  for  I  can 
hardly  stand  it." 

I  had  been  so  unaccustomed  to  the  society  of 
women,  and  my  dear  wife  and  the  gentle  Martha, 
in  all  my  various  moods  of  gaiety  and  melancholy, 
had  always  shown  so  much  tenderness  and  sym- 
pathy for  me,  that  the  mirth  of  this  young  lady 
excited  something  like  uneasiness  in  my  mind,  and 
I  could  not  help  referring  to  it  in  the  midst  of  the 
storm  that  was  raging.  Perhaps  it  was  of  service 
to  me  ;  but  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  indig- 
nant my  wife  would  be  had  she  been  witness  to  it; 
for,  as  she  respected  me  herself,  she  could  not  but 
suppose  that  1  would  be  entitled  to  the  same 
respect  from  others. 

Having  never  been  on  the  ocean  before,  the  vio- 
lence of  the  gale  was  truly  appalling,  though  the 
captain  assured  me  there  was  no  danger;  it  conti- 
nued unabated  for  two  days  and  nights,  and  at  every 
meal,  there  set  the  laughing  lady.  I  asked  who  the 
young  lady  was,  that  seemed  so  amused  when  I  went 
to  the  table.  The  captain  laughed  heartily  and  then 
begged  my  pardon.  "Indeed,  Mr.  Parr,"  said  he, 
"you  must  cheer  up;  why  man,  we  want  mirth  and 
not  melancholy  on  shipboard.  I  cannot  find  out  why 
you  look  so  very  unhappy,  for  Mr.  Blagge  tells  me 
that  you  have  a  lovely  wife,  and  are  in  expectation 
of  getting  a  large  fortune.  Why  you  did  not  bring 
your  lady  along  with  you  is  more  than  I  can  tell ; 
this  gale  is  nothing,  the  ship  is  a  fast  sailer  and  the 


THE  SURPRISE.  161 

voyage  will  be  a  short  and  a  pleasant  one,  no  doubt, 
so  you  might  have  enjoyed  her  society  in  comfort, 
if  it  is  the  leaving  her  behind  that  makes  you  look 
so  miserable.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  wonder  that  the 
young  lady  is  amused;  why  I  could  hardly  keep  my 
own  countenance  at  the  breakfast  table  this  morn- 
ing, you  looked  so  disturbed,  and  cast  such  suspi- 
cious glances  at  the  harmless  young  thing  who  was 
looking  at  you." 

But  this  did  not  mend  the  matter,  for  I  was  not 
to  become  gay  merely  because  others  were  amused 
by  the  expression  of  sadness  in  my  countenance. 
That  I  had  willingly  parted  from  my  wife  was  a 
reality  that  could  not  be  forgotten,  and  I  told  the 
captain  that  to  avoid  giving  the  tittering  lady  any 
further  food  for  her  mirth,  I  should  take  my  seat  on 
the  same  side  of  the  table  with  her.  He  consented 
that  I  should,  and  the  dinner  passed  off  very  well, 
for  my  opposite  neighbour  was  a  decrepid  old  wo- 
man whose  head  was  bent  low,  and  who  seemed  to 
suffer  too  much  from  sickness  to  care  who  looked 
sad  or  merry. 

The  gale  abated,  and  by  sundown  it  had  died 
away  to  a  pleasant  breeze;  the  full  moon  rose  beau- 
tifully out  of  the  ocean,  and  my  whole  soul  was 
filled  with  wonder  and  admiration.  If  my  wife  had 
been  at  my  side,  what  a  happiness  to  enjoy  it  with 
her ;  I  sighed  heavily,  and  the  good  natured  captain 
broke  in  upon  my  meditations.  "  I  am  more  and 
more  sorry  Mr.  Parr,"  said  he,  "  that  you  did  not 
bring  your  wife  with  you;  if  I  had  only  known  how 
hard  you  were  going  to  take  it,  I  should  have 
brought  her  along  by  main  force.  You  will  destroy 
yourself  if  you  continue  thus  to  grieve,  and  yet  I 
cannot  blame  you  much  neither,  for  I  had  pretty 
nearly  the  same  kind  of  feelings  when  I  left  my 
wife  for  the  first  time.  It  was  different  with  me, 
however,  I  was  only  mate  then,  and  had  not  the 


162  THE  SURPRISE. 

power  to  bring  her  with  me,  but  I  warrant  you  I 
did  so  as  soon  as  I  became  captain." 

"  Why,  is  your  wife  on  board  now,"  said  I,  fright- 
ened out  of  my  senses  lest  the  laughing  lady  might 
be  her.     "  J  have  not  seen  her,  have  I." 

"No,  she  is  quite  indisposed,"  said  he;  "in  fact 
she  goes  this  voyage  to  see  whether  it  may  not  cure 
her  eyes;  she  has  to  wear  goggles  all  the  time  as 
the  light  is  so  painful;  if  it  were  not  for  that  she 
would  be  a  very  pretty  woman;  one  of  these  even- 
ings I  will  get  her  to  take  them  off,  and  you  must 
come  down  and  see  her.  Do  you  play  at  chess? 
You  do  hey;  well,  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  she  plays  a 
good  game,  and  it  will  keep  you  both  to  while  away 
the  time,  particularly  since  my  wife's  eyes  won't 
allow  her  to  sew.  She  has  beautiful  hair,  too, 
though  I  say  it,"  continued  the  warm-hearted  cap- 
tain, and  I  liked  him  all  the  better  for  talking  so 
tenderly  of  his  wife.  "That  old  lady  that  sits  oppo- 
site to  you  now,  almost  bent  double,  as  you  see,  is 
a  friend  of  my  wife's,  and  we  are  taking  her  on  a 
visit.  Poor  old  thing  she  is  so  near-sighted,  that 
every  thing  must  go  close  to  her  eyes,  or  her  eyes 
be  sent  close  to  the  object,  otherwise  she  could  not 
see  to  cut  her  food  even.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Parr,  is 
your  wife  handsome?' 

"I  think  she  is,"  said  I,  "to  me  she  appears 
beautiful,  and  I  wish  she  was  here  to  enjoy  this  de- 
licious evening  with  me." 

"  Why  yes,  as  I  said,  it  would  be  better  to  have 
her  here.  My  wife  has  a  few  freckles  on  her  face 
— is  your  wife  freckled?" 

"Freckled!"  said  I  indignantly,  "no,  \\  hy  do 
you  ask  that  question  ;  she  has  a  remarkablv  clear 
skin." 

"Oh,  T  meant  no  offence;  what  colour  are  her 
eyes?  my  wife  has  blue  eyes;  people  say  they  are 
handsome,  and  I  think  so  too." 


THE  SURPRISE.  163 

Would  any  one  believe  me  when  I  say,  that  to 
this  moment,  I  could  not  tell  the  colour  of  her  eyes. 
To  me  they  always  beamed  with  intelligence  and 
love;  and  as  to  whether  they  were  blue  or  grey,  I 
never  thought.  But  the  persevering  captain  think- 
ing that  it  gave  me  great  pleasure  in  talking  of  her, 
went  on  in  this  way  to  question  me  about  her  dear 
face  until  I  got  as  miserable  as  possible.  "  Well, 
well,"  said  he,  moving  off,  "you  can't  bear  more  to- 
night, so  I'll  go  below  and  talk  to  the  ladies  a  little, 
and  tell  my  wife  the  good  news  that  you  can  play 
chess." 

Good  news,  indeed,  to  sit  opposite  to  his  goggle- 
eyed  wife,  and  play  at  chess,  when  she  that  taught 
me  was  sitting  solitary  at  home.  I  thought  I  should 
go  mad,  if  I  did  not  try  and  invent  some  excuse;  for 
the  idea  was  intolerable,  and  yet  I  pitied  the  poor 
woman  too. 

The  next  morning  the  captain's  wife  wras  at  ta- 
ble ;  she  had  taken  her  seat  before  I  went  down,  so 
that  I  could  not  see  her  distinctly,  although  she  was 
on  the  opposite  side.  She  wore  green  spectacles 
and  plenty  of  curls,  which  were  certainly  of  a  beau- 
tiful colour ;  but  the  cap  she  wore  hid  the  back  hair 
entirely;  so  I  thought,  after  all,  it  was  only  a  little 
brag  of  the  captain,  for  these  curls  might  be  arti- 
ficial. As  to  the  freckles,  there  they  were,  sure 
enough ;  ugly  little  yellow  things.  She  did  well,  I 
thought,  to  let  the  curls  cover  her  face  as  much  as 
possible,  for  these  freckles  were  well  worth  hiding. 
And  then,  such  great  clumsy  hands  too  ;  and  to 
make  them  look  still  larger  by  wearing  gloves.  I 
was  at  last  quite  ashamed  of  myself,  for  I  really 
felt  spiteful  towards  this  poor  lady;  more  particu- 
larly as  the  tittering  one  opposite  to  her  was  now 
fairly  laughing  out ;  and  all  the  rest,  but  the  cap- 
tain's wife  and  the  poor  old  lady  opposite  to  me, 


164  THE  SURPRISE. 

laughed  along  with  her.     I  looked  at  the  captain, 
and  he  sat  with  his  handkerchief  to  his  face. 

I  made  a  short  meal  of  it;  and  I  determined  if 
this  foolery  was  continued  at  dinner,  that  I  would 
eat  in  the  steerage,  any  where,  rather  than  encoun- 
ter such  incivilities  ;  for  I,  somehow  or  other,  asso- 
ciated it  all  with  myself;  but  to  my  great  relief, 
neither  the  captain's  wife  nor  the  young  lady  were 
at  table,  so  that  I  ate  my  dinner  without  annoyance. 
But  there  was  no  getting  rid  of  the  captain's  de- 
sire to  amuse  his  poor  wife  with  a  game  of  chess. 
He  set  aside  every  excuse;  and  at  length,  fairly 
told  me  that  he  saw  through  my  artifice;  but  that 
he  knew  better  than  I  did,  how  to  make  the  voyage 
endurable ;  and  that  the  sooner  I  broke  through  my 
reserve  and  shyness  the  belter  able  I  should  be  to 
bear  up  against  the  separation  with  my  wife. 

There  were  but  three  gentlemen  passengers,  so 
that,  in  all,  there  were,  besides  myself  and  the  cap- 
tain's wife,  only  the  laughing  lady  and  the  one  who 
sat  opposite  to  me.  There  were,  to  be  sure,  a  num- 
ber in  the  steerage;  but  I  had  not  taken  any  notice 
of  them,  nor,  in  fact,  had  I  exchanged  a  word  with 
the  gentlemen  in  the  cabin.  I  was,  therefore,  very 
much  surprised  when  they  all  three  left  the  table 
and  went  with  me  on  deck,  talking  with  me  as  fa- 
miliarly as  if  I  had  been  the  most  communicative 
person  in  the  world.  They  were  in  high  glee,  and 
said  a  number  of  pleasant  things,  all  of  which  I 
might  have  enjoyed  at  any  other  moment ;  but  the 
chess  and  the  captain's  wife  crowded  out  all  social 
feelings;  and  when  the  captain  came  for  me,  and 
said  the  chess  board  was  arranged,  and  his  wife 
waiting,  I  went  down  provoked  enough. — Only  to 
think  of  being  placed  in  such  a  dilemma — to  sit 
with  the  captain's  wife,  dawdling  over  the  chess 
men,  with  a  mind  so  far  away.     My  only  hope 


THE  SURPRISE.  165 

was,  that  she  would  beat  me  so  easily  that  she 
would  not  ask  me  to  play  with  her  again. 

When  I  got  in  the  cabin,  the  first  person  I  saw 
was  the  old  lady,  who  was  pulling  and  jerking  at 
her  black  hood,  and  laughing  heartily.  Surely, 
thought  I,  that  laugh  is  familiar  to  me ;  but  she 
could  not  untie  the  string  of  her  hood,  so  I  offere,d 
to  help  her.  Thereat  she  laughed  louder  and  push- 
ed me  away.  I  then  turned  to  the  captain's  wife, 
and  she  seemed  beside  herself  too.  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  cracked  set  of  people  in  my  life  ;  they 
all  seemed  bursting  with  fun.  She  threw,  first  one, 
and  then  the  other,  ugly  glove,  across  the  floor;  and 
then  away  went  the  spectacles,  away  went  the 
cap,  and  away  went  the  curls,  and  I  stood  amazed 
and  wondering  what  was  coming  next,  when  a  voice 
that  sprung  fresh  and  warm  to  my  heart,  said, 
"  Patrick,  my  dear  Patrick,  do  you  know  me  now?"' 
I  ha*d  no  words;  not  a  syllable  could  my  overjoyed 
heart  allow  me  to  utter,  as  my  dear  wife  lay  in  my 
fond  arms. 

And  there  she  was,  and  Martha  too.  The  captain 
and  his  wife,  who  was  the  laughing  lady,  all  were 
in  the  plot ;  and  I  was  for  a  long  time  in  such  agi- 
tated bliss  that  I  did  not  want  to  hear  how  it  had 
all  happened;  but  it  was  a  surprise — a  most  joyful 
surprise. 

"  And  so,  Patrick,  dearest,"  said  she,  "  you  never 
knew  I  had  freckles,  just  look  at  them."  "No, no," 
said  I,  kissing  the  dear  cheek  that  she  held  towards 
me,  "nor  do  I  see  them  now  ;  nor  could  I  tell  the 
colour  of  these  eyes ;  all  I  was  ever  sensible  to  is 
their  tender  expression.  And  here  is  dear  Martha 
too ;  how  completely  were  you  both  disguised.  By 
and  by  you  must  tell  me  all  about  it;  but  now  I 
only  want  to  feel  the  bliss  of  being  near  to  you, 
and  to  know  that  this  is  all  reality." 

In  half  an  hour  some  one  tapped  at  the  door,  and 
p 


166  THE  SURPRISE. 

in  came  my  late  tormentor,  and  in  came  the  cap- 
tain;  and  now  they  laughed  heartily ;  and  I  smiled 
in  return,  for  my  heart  was  too  full  to  break  out  in 
loud  mirth.  It  seems  it  was  as  much  as  they  could 
all  do  to  restrain  the  lively  lady,  fearing  that  the 
plot  would  be  discovered  before  the  time.  My  wife 
intended  to  show  herself  as  soon  as  the  pilot  left 
us;  but  she  was  so  very  sea-sick  that  she  thought 
I  could  better  bear  the  pain  of  thinking  her  away 
from  me  than  witness  suffering  which  I  could  not 
relieve.  The  gale  came  on,  and  her  sickness  con- 
tinued, and  she  thought  it  most  prudent  to  wait  till 
it  was  over.  Her  plan  was  to  write  me  a  note,  and 
prepare  me  for  it,  but  the  captain  and  his  wife,  as 
well  as  the  gentlemen,  begged  her  to  allow  of  this 
little  artifice,  which,  as  they  had  taken  such  an  in- 
terest in  her  affairs,  she  thought  it  right  to  indulge 
them  in.  Finding  me  so  averse  to  her  going,  and 
knowing  that  I  should  so  bitterly  regret  it,  she  and 
Martha  went  in  a  carriage,  one  day,  and  interested 
Mr.  Blagge  in  her  scheme.  The  captain  and  his 
wife  were  delighted;  and  whilst  he  detained  me  by 
a  sham  business,  on  shore,  Mr.  Porter  saw  her  and 
Martha  safely  on  board.  She  had  left  the  trunks 
till  the  last,  hoping  that  I  might  relent,  and  thus 
prevent  any  necessity  of  a  plot;  but  as  I  would  not 
consent,  Mr.  Porter,  who  had  another  carriage  in 
waiting,  took  them  down  to  the  wharf. 

What  more  is  to  be  said  ?  Our  voyage  was  de- 
lightful. I  had  no  difficulty,  whatever,  in  identify- 
ing myself;  and  I  returned  in  possession  of  a  large 
estate,  which  I  trust  I  shall  spend  with  grateful  feel- 
ings. Dr.  Bently  and  his  amiable  niece,  Miss  Sid- 
ney, now  Mrs.  North,  were  our  fellow-passengers 
on  returning.  They  little  knew  what  an  interest  I 
had  in  the  village  of  Camperdown,  when  they  so 
earnestly  pressed  me  to  settle  in  thier  neighbourhood. 
My  beloved  wife  was  not  at  all  the  worse  for  the 


THE  SURPRISE.  167 

three  months'  excursion  ;  and  two  months  after  our 
return,  we  were  made  still  happier,  if  possible,  by 
the  birth  of  a  son.  My  wife,  always  mindful  of 
my  feelings,  has  called  him  Cyrus,  after  my  poor 
father ;  and  we  are,  I  trust,  bringing  him  up  in  the 
love  of  his  Maker,  and  in  the  fear  of  breaking  his 
commandments.  Aunt  Martha,  as  you  know,  lives 
with  us,  and  Mr.  Porter  resides  altogether  in  the 
stone  house,  where  I  was  born;  we  could  not  do 
without  him.  Now  that  you  all  know  my  dear  wife, 
you  can  easily  imagine  that  my  love  for  her  can 
never  diminish  ;  and  that,  to  be  separated  from  her, 
would  be  the  greatest  of  evils. 

You  have  asked  me  to  write  a  memoir  of  my 
life  ;  but,  after  all,  what  is  it?  It  is  only  a  descrip- 
tion of  my  heart  and  its  feelings ;  of  my  early  sor- 
rows, and  of  my  deep,  deep  love  for  one,  whom  I 
still  continue  to  think  is  far  too  good — too  far  above 
me.  Of  her  unworthy  uncle  I  will  not  speak ;  she 
was  his  sister's  only  child,  and  he  could  neither  ap- 
preciate nor  love  her.  All  my  felicity  has  arisen 
from  his  blindness,  and  I  therefore  forgive  him. 
But  if  there  has  been  nothing  remarkable  in  this 
memoir,  if  the  events  are  such  as  we  meet  with 
frequently,  surely  there  is  some  novelty  in  the  Sur- 
prise. 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 


"  Jemmy,  come  here — come  quick,  will  ye,"  said 
a  poor,  dirty,  good-natured  looking  fellow,  to  a 
man  as  ragged  and  poor  as  himself — "  step  faster, 
will  ye,  and  help  me  to  raise  this  wagon." 

They  lifted  up  the  overturned  light  carriage  and 
dragged  out  of  the  mud — first,  atrunk  and  carpet 
bag,  then  a  gun  case,  and  lastly  the  owner  of  all 
this,  a  middle  aged  man,  apparently,  who  had  been 
stunned  by  the  rail,  although  in  so  soft  a  spot. 

He  recovered  his  senses,  however,  as  soon  as  the 
men  raised  him  from  the  ground,  and  the  next  thing 
was  to  know  what  to  do  with  him.  One  of  the  men, 
Jemmy  Brady,  scratched  his  head  and  said,  "  If  I 
had  ever  a  room  but  the  one  in  which  the  wife  and 
childer  are,  I  would  take  the  gentleman  there  any 
how,  but  the  noise  would  be  too  great  for  him  I'm 
thinking." 

"  Och!  but  he'll  never  mind  the  childer,  God  bless 
them,"  said  the  other.  "  I  dare  say  his  honour  has 
plenty  of  them — the  likes  of  these  jontlemen  are 
always  fond  of  young  childer." 

"  You  are  very  much  mistaken,  my  friend,"  said 
the  stranger,  "  I  do  not  like  children.     Is  there  no 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  169 

cabin  or  hut  about  here  where  I  could  rest  for  an 
hour  or  two,  and  change  my  clothes?  I  see  that 
the  wheel  is  off  the  carriage,  so  I  cannot  proceed  to 
the  tavern." 

"Yes,  sure,"  said  Larry,  "plenty  of  them,  bar- 
ring Jemmy  Brady's  and  mine.  Jemmy  has  seven 
childer  and  I  have  five, — too  much  noise  for  your 
honour,  I'm  thinking,  and  the  mud  is  almost  as  thick 
on  the  floor  of  my  shanty  as  it  is  here,  your  honour 
— but  if  you'll  step  a  bit  this  way,  I'll  take  you  to 
Sally  M'Curdy's." 

The  gentleman  asked  if  this  Sally  M'Curdy  had 
any  children.  Larry  said  that  she  had  not — that 
she  was  a  lone  woman.  "  She's  left  with  one  grand- 
daughter," said  he,  "  Norah — you'll  maybe  have 
heard  of  little  Norie,yer  honour,  for  she  is  very  smart 
at  her  latters,and  can  read  and  write  too,  and  she's 
very  quiet  and  very  mindful  of  her  grandmother." 

Both  Jemmy  and  Larry  had  the  instinctive  feel- 
ing, that  this  widow's  shanty  bade  fairer  for  com- 
fort than  any  other  in  the  range,  and  they  were 
hastening  forward  to  show  the  way  and  to  prepare 
her  for  the  guest,  when  he  discovered  that  he  had 
sprained  his  ancle,  and  could  not  move. 

"  What  now  is  to  be  done,"  said  he,  impatiently, 
"I  cannot  lift  my  foot  from  the  ground,  and  the 
pain  is  becoming  intolerable." 

"  Och,  hub-bub-boo,"  said  Larry,  "  what  is  better 
to  be  done  than  to  carry  your  honour  on  our  hands, 
crossed  this  fashion.  I've  carried  a  bigger  man 
nor  you  in  this  way,  in  play  even."  So  he  called 
lazy  Jemmy  to  him,"  who  scratched  his  head  and 
sighed,  to  think  of  the  heavy  weight  they  were  to 
carry.  He  crossed  hands  with  Larry,  the  stranger 
seated  himself,  and  in  this  awkward,  singular  vyay, 
with  much  vexation  of  spirit,  he  was  taken  to  Sally 
M'Curdy's  shanty. 

"  Here  is  a  good  ould  gentleman  what's  lame," 
r  2 


170  THE  SEVEN  SHANT-E5. 

said  Larry,  as  they  lifted  him  up  a  few  steps  into 
the  neat  little  room — "  he's  broke  his  foot  any  how, 
Mistress  M'Curdy,  and  shall  I  run  for  a  doctor, 
your  honour,  to  set  the  leg?" 

"  My  leg  is  not  broken,  my  honest  friend.  If  this 
good  lady  gives  me  leave  to  rest  here  all  night,  all 
that  I  shall  require  is,  to  have  the  boot  cut  off  and 
my  ancle  bathed — it  is  only  a  sprain." 

"  And  is  it  I  that  will  cut  that  good  boot,  your  ho- 
,  nour,  I  that  am  a  shoemaker  by  trade,  if  the  white 
boys  at  home  would  have  let  me  earn  a  penny  at  it. 
Sure  I  know  where  the  stitches  are,  and  can't  I  cut 
the  thread  ?"  So  down  Larry  knelt,  and  with  speed 
and  skill,  giving  the  stranger  as  little  pain  as  pos- 
sible, he  cut  through  the  seam,  and  took  the  boot 
from  the  swelled  foot.  Meantime  Mrs.  M'Curdy 
was  not  idle,  she  called  her  little  grand-daughter, 
and  immediately  began  to  prepare  supper,  as  the 
gentle  clatter  of  cups  in  the  next  room  indicated. 

The  stranger,  whose  name  was  Price,  begged 
Jemmy  to  take  his  horse  and  dearborn  to  the  next 
inn,  and  tell  the  landlord  of  his  accident,  and  to  say 
where  he  was  to  be  found.  He  knew  there  was 
nothing  better  to  be  done  than  to  put  his  foot  in  a 
tub  of  warm,  salt  water,  and  to  remain  as  quiet  as 
possible.  Larry,  whose  good  nature  was  a  strong 
recommendation,  promised  to  assist  him  in  undress- 
ing, so  that  in  half  an  hour  after  changing  his 
clothes  and  keeping  his  foot  in  the  tepid  water,  he 
felt  so  much  easier  that  he  was  glad  to  hear  that  tea 
was  ready.  He  was  very  willing  to  have  the  little 
tea  table  drawn  close  to  his  chair,  and  partake  of  the 
nice  supper  which  his  kind  hostess  had  prepared  for 
him. 

"Don't  wait — don't  stand  up,  my  good  lady," 
said  he,  "  have  you  no  young  person  to  assist  you  ; 
pray  sit  down  and  pour  out  tea  for  me." 

Mrs.  M'Curdy  quietly  seated   herself  and   made 


THE  SEVEiV  SHANTIES.  171 

ten,  while  Larry  answered  the  question  about  the 
young  person,  by  pulling  in  the  little  shv  Norah. 

"Oh,  Norah,  dear," 'said  Mrs.  M'Curdy,  "you 
should  not  be  coming  in,  child,  and  the  gentleman  in 
such  pain — may  be  children  trouble  you,  sir." 

"  I  am  not  over  fond  of  children,  that's  certain," 
said  Mr.  Price,  "  but  I  should  not  imagine  this  nice 
little  girl,  who  seems  so  unwilling  to  intrude,  could 
be  noisy  or  troublesome.  Let  her  go,  Larry — I 
believe  that's  your  name — let  her  hand  go." 

Oil*  darted  the  little  girl,  much  to  Mr.  Price's 
gratification;  and  much  to  Larry's  joy.  After  get- 
ting the  gentleman  snugly  to  bed,  he  received  a 
dollar  for  his  evening's  services,  with  a  request  to 
call  in  the  morning  and  assist  him  to  rise. 

But  the  morning  found  Mr.  Price,  although  able 
to  rise,  in  so  much  pain  that  there  was  no  hope  of 
proceeding  on  his  journey ;  he,  therefore,  after  se- 
curing Larry's  services  during  those  intervals  al- 
lotted to  the  labourers  at  the  forge,  quietly  settled 
it  in  his  mind  that  here  he  must  remain  until  the 
ankle  recovered  its  strength.  Mrs.  M'Curdy  was 
gentle,  neat  and  attentive  ;  anticipating  his  wants, 
and  only  wishing  that  more  was  to  be  done.  But 
Mr.  Price  was  neither  troublesome  nor  ungracious, 
and  before  the  dinner  hour  approached  she  won- 
dered how  so  good-natured  a  gentleman  could  dis- 
like children. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  she,  finishing  her  thoughts 
aloud,  "  Larry's  little  ones  are  very  noisy,  and  not 
over  clean,  and  poor  Jemmy's  are  still  worse  than 
noisy;  for  they  are  rude  and  mischievous.  But 
Norah  is  not  like  other  children,  sir,  and  she  knows 
a  world  of  stories,  your  honour,  if  it  is  stories  out 
of  books  would  amuse  you.  Sure  will  you  try  and 
coax  the  little  creature  in  to  sit  by  you  a  bit,  till  I 
come  back  from  the  grocer;  and  if  she  tires  you, 
just  let  her  go  when  Larry  comes  in." 


172  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

"  Well,  send  her  in,"  said  Mr.  Price,  "  and  let 
me  hear  her  little  stories.  I  will  promise  to  get  rid 
of  her  when  she  becomes  troublesome." 

"  Then  your  honour  will  want  to  keep  her  for 
ever  at  your  side,  for  Norah  is  never  troublesome. 
She  is  an  orphan,  your  honour,  and  that,  as  your 
honour  knows,  is  a  child  without  father  or  mother; 
although  in  Philadelphia  they  have  found  out,  it  is 
said,  that  an  orphan  means  a  child  with  one  parent. 
But  little  Norah's  mother  died  broken-hearted  be- 
cause  her  husband  left  her  and  married  another 
woman.  She  had  too  much  feeling  for  her  little 
girl  to  prosecute  him;  so  she  bore  it  all  and  died. 
Since  that  time  her  husband  is  dead;  but  I  keep  it 
all  to  myself,  not  letting  his  hard-hearted  family 
know  of  little  Norah.  Indeed,  I  have  kept  pur- 
posely from  knowing  where  they  now  are;  for  out 
of  pride,  like,  they  would  take  her  away  from  me, 
and  put  her  to  some  grand  boarding-school;  for, 
from  what  I  could  learn  from  him,  they  are  rich." 

The  grandmother  brought  in  the  blushing  little 
girl,  almost  by  force,  to  the  gentleman's  arm-chair; 
but  on  his  stroking  her  hair,  and  speaking  tenderly, 
she,  by  degrees,  began  to  look  up  and  cast  side 
glances  at  him;  and,  finally,  on  his  asking  her  to 
hand  him  a  glass  of  water,  she  shook  back  her 
curly  locks,  and,  with  the  movement,  threw  off  part 
of  her  fright. 

"Well,  you  are  no  longer  afraid  of  me,  Norah; 
you  have  a  little  chair  there,  I  see;  bring  it  here, 
and  sit  by  me  till  your  grandmother  comes  back. 
How  old  are  you  ?" 

"I  am  nine  years  old;  but  I  can  remember  my 
mother  quite  well,  for  I  was  five  years  old  when 
she  died.  1  have  not  cried  about  her  for  a  great 
while,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  could  cry  now." 

"No,  don't  cry,  Norah, don't,"  said  Mr.  Price,  as 
the  poor  little  creature  burst  into  a  passionate  flood 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  173 

of  tears — "don't  cry,  my  dear;"  and  lifting  the  child 
up,  he  drew  her  to  him,  while  she  sobbed  on  his 
bosom.     "  What  makes  you  cry  now?" 

"  Why,  Jemmy  Brady  came  in  the  room  last 
evening,  when  grandmother  was  getting  your  sup- 
per ready,  and  he  said  something  to  me  which 
made  me  think  of  my  mother,  and  I  have  been  all 
the  morning  thinking  of  her,  and  of  all  that  she 
said  and  did." 

"  Well,  what  did  this  Jemmy  Brady  say  to  you 
that  has  troubled  you  so  much?"  But  Norah would 
not  tell.  She  said  it  was  no  matter  now,  she  should 
not  cry  again ;  for  she  was  sure  he  was  good-na- 
tured. 

It  was  a  new  thing  for  Mr.  Price  to  be  soothing 
a  crying  child — he  kept  referring  to  it  himself — but 
Norah  advanced  in  his  good  graces,  and  by  the 
time  Mrs.  M'Curdy returned, he  was  laughingaloud 
at  some  of  her  childish  remarks.  Norah  too,  was 
very  much  pleased  with  Mr.  Price;  her  bright  blue 
eye  seemed  to  watch  every  motion  of  his,  and  at 
length  he  really  felt  awTant,  a  restlessness  whenever 
the  child  was  called  out  of  the  room. 

A  week  still  found  Mr.  Price  sitting  in  the  widow 
M'Curdy's  arm  chair,  and  little  Norah  at  his  side. 
A  sprained  ankle,  every  one  knows,  requires  time 
and  quiet  and  an  outstretched  limb,  but  above  all, 
a  tranquil  mind.  He  had  time,  for  he  was  rich;  and 
where  on  earth,  thought  he,  could  I  be  so  quiet  as  in 
this  neat  little  room.  Friction  was  now  necessary, 
and  who  could  rub  his  leg  so  tenderly  as  the  dear 
little  girl;  then  her  prattle  was  delightful.  He  had 
never  been  much  among  children;  he  once  had  a 
son,  but  an  indulgent  mother  ruined  him.  His 
child  from  boy  to  manhood  had  been  a  constant 
source  of  disquiet  and  misery  to  him,  and  he  had 
three  years  before  this  period,  followed  him  to  the 
grave.     He  thought  that  no  child  could  ever  again 


174  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

interest  him,  in  fact  he  had  steeled  his  heart  against 
children,  and  but  for  this  accident,  and  the  good 
chance  of  meeting  with  Mrs.  M'Curdy,  the  warm 
and  pleasant  feelings  which  the  innocence  and  beau- 
ty of  childhood  always  create,  had  been  unknown  to 
him  for  ever. 

Nothing  could  be  cleaner  and  neater  than  the  old 
lady;  all  her  ways  were  tidy.  She  never  ran  her 
forefinger  in  a  tumbler  or  tea  cup,  nor  washed  the 
tea  things  in  a  wash  basin,  nor  dried  them  on  the 
same  towel  with  which  the  hands  were  dried,  as 
many  of  the  poor  do.  All  this  Mr.  Price  saw,  and 
what  made  his  room  particularly  comfortable  was, 
that  there  were  shutters  to  his  window.  His  room 
was  facing  the  road,  which  Mrs.  M'Curdy  very 
much  regretted,  as  the  children  of  the  other  shanties 
were  forever  in  view  of  the  house,  keeping  up  an 
eternal  squalling  and  noise  of  some  kind  or  other, 
frequently  amounting  to  screams  and  yells.  When 
things  arrived  at  this  height,  the  mothers  of  the  dif- 
ferent children  would  rush  out,  and  by  dint  of  pull- 
ing, tugging,  beating  and  scolding,  succeed  in  drag- 
ging the  delinquent  away  from  "the  sick  gentleman." 

"  Can't  ye  be  after  seeing  that  your  noise  disturbs 
the  lame  gentleman,  ye  sinners  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Brady  one  fine  spring  morning,  as  she  was  separat- 
ing her  two  eldest  boys  from  a  fighting  frolic — 
"  come  away,  will  ye,  and  get  me  the  chips,  or  ye'll 
no  get  your  breakfast,  let  alone  your  father's  and 
the  baby's." 

One  eye  was  directed  to  Mr.  Price's  window,  while 
this  was  screamed  out  by  the  woman,  a  poor,  dirty, 
broken  down  looking  creature;  who,  although  not 
more  than  five  and  thirty,  looked  at  least  fifty.  She 
had  never  had  the  "luck"  to  see  Mr.  Price,  a  thing  she 
ardently  longed  for,  as  every  one  else  at  some  odd 
time  or  other,  had  taken  a  peep  at  him.  Larry  was 
loud  in  his  praise,  and  lazy  Jemmy,  as  he  was  call- 


THE  SEVEN   SHANTIES.  175 

ed  by  one  and  all  of  the  women,  and  by  his  own  wife 
too,  had  also  testified  to  the  liberality  of  the  lame 
gentleman. 

"  Why  are  not  these  children  made  to  work,"  said 
he  to  Mrs.  M'Curdy,  as  he  turned  from  the  window 
in  disgust.  "  Those  two  boys  could  be  employed  in 
the  factories,  I  should  think;  they  must  be  at  least 
eight  and  ten  years  of  age." 

"  Yes,  they  are  old  enough  to  work,"  said  Mrs. 
M'Curdy,  but  it  is  only  in  the  paper-mills  that  such 
young  children  are  wanted;  and  those  who  have 
even  worked  in  a  paper-mill  know  that  nothing  tires 
such  young  children  so  much  as  picking  and  pulling 
about  old  rags.  If  they  could  be  employed  at  some 
other  thing  half  the  day,  I  think  both  the  employer 
and  the  children  could  be  greatly  benefited  by  it." 

"Well,  why  can  they  not?  Why  can't  they  be 
made  to  work  in  a  garden  all  the  morning,  and 
at  some  quiet  work  in  the  afternoon  1  Here  you 
have  a  population  of  several  thousand  persons, 
and  according  to  your  own  account  throughout  the 
summer  you  have  no  fruit  nor  vegetables,  scarcely 
a  potatoe.  You  live  then  on  bread  and  meat.  Are 
not  those  men  who  have  an  eye  to  the  interests  of 
the  community  aware,  that  a  diet  of  this  kind  creates 
thirst,  and  they  must  know  that  a  thirsty  man  will 
not  always  drink  water.  How  do  you  get  along 
with  such  a  poor  diet  as  bread  and  meat '!" 

"  Oh,  it  is  far  different  with  us ;  when  your  honor 
is  able  to  leave  the  room  I  will  show  you  my  little 
garden,  our  little  garden  I  should  say;  for  here  is 
Norah,  who  is  sitting  on  your  lap,  so  helpless  like 
just  now,  she  assists  me  greatly  in  the  garden.  She 
fetches  and  carries,  helps  sow  the  seeds,  and  more 
than  helps  weed ;  indeed  last  summer  I  had  so  much 
sowing  to  do  that  there  was  but  little  time  to  weed. 
And  the  dear  child  picked  every  bean  and  pea  her- 
self, and  from  a  very  little  patch  she  got  as  much  as 


176  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

a  quart  of  strawberries  every  day ;  and  did  I  not  get 
eighteen  pence  for  every  quart,  without  stirring 
away  from  the  door  to  sell  them  ?  And  how  much, 
dear,  did  you  get  from  your  little  row  of  raspber- 
ries ?"  Norah  said  it  was  thirteen  shillings.  "  Well, 
we  made  clear  money,  besides  helping  ourselves  to 
as  much  as  we  wanted  for  our  own  eating,  just  four- 
teen dollars;  it  paid  our  rent  and  two  dollars  over; 
so  it  was  no  more  than  right  that  Norah,  the  little 
dear,  should  get  the  two  dollars  to  herself;  the  very 
frock  and  shoes  she  has  on,  can  show  it." 

Mr.  Price  kissed  the  little  girl,  whose  sparkling 
eye  showed  how  deeply  she  was  interested  in  her 
grandmother's  story — he  asked  if  all  the  shanties 
had  gardens  attached  to  them,  and  whether  the 
children  assisted  their  parents  in  working  them. 

"Oh,  no,  poor  things,"  said  the  old  lady,  "they 
would  work,  even  lazy  Jemmy's  children  would  work 
if  they  were  encouraged.  But  see  how  it  is,  your  ho- 
nour. When  I  came  here  nine  years  ago,  Norah  was 
just  two  months'  old — this  shanty  was  knocked  up 
quickly  for  me;  and  it  had  never  a  floor  even  till  the 
winter  came.  There  were  then  no  other  shanties  near, 
and  as  I  had  paid  for  the  building  of  the  house  and  for 
the  fence  around  the  garden,  I  by  degrees,  got  very 
comfortable.  Before  I  built  the  chimney,  sashed 
the  window,  and  made  the  floor,  it  was  bad  enough ; 
but  I  had  not  enough  money  at  the  time,  and  it  was 
only  by  working  early  and  late,  and  my  poor  dear 
daughter  helped  too,  that  I  got  all  these  things  done, 
and  proud  enough  I  was  to  show  people  how  much 
a  lone  woman  could  do.  There's  many  a  woman 
here,  your  honour,  in  these  shanties,  that  could  do 
very  well  if  their  husbands  would  let  them,  but  a 
poor  woman  has  no  chance  at  all.  Here  is  Biddy 
Brady,  my  next  neighbour,  she  has  seven  chil- 
dren, from  ten  years  down  to  that  little  wee  thing 
yonder,  that  has  just  now  been  taken  out  for  the 


THE  SEVEN-  SHAXTIES.  177 

first  time — there  it  is,  Norah  dear,  and  she's  called 
it  Norah  after  my  grandchild,  sir,  because  Norah 
has  been  kind  like  in  her  ways  to  poor  Biddy,  who 
is  to  be  sure,  a  little  bit  of  a  scold,  and  always  in  a 
hubbub  of  some  kind  or  other.  My  landlord  leased 
me  this  piece  of  ground  for  ten  years;  but  well  he 
may,  for  I  have  made  this  house  quite  comfortable, 
you  see.  There  are  three  rooms,  small  enough  to 
be  sure,  but  if  I  have  to  leave  it,  and  oh,  how  loath  I 
shall  be  to  go  from  it,  he  will  get  thirty-six  dollars 
for  it  instead  of  twelve — only  think  of  that.  He  is 
a  good  man,  and  I  dare  say  when  I  ask  him  to  re- 
new my  lease,  for  the  sake  of  the  good  I  have  done 
to  his  property,  he  will  rent  the  place  to  me  for 
thirty  dollars." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Price,  who  had  been 
musing  during  this  long  speech,  "don't  think  about 
your  rent  for  the  next  year,  or  the  year  after, — 
don't  cry,  Norah,  your  grandmother  shall  have  no 
rent  to  pay  for  five  years,  if  you  will  always  be  as 
good  a  girl  as  you  are  now.  Who  taught  you  to 
read,  Norah  ? — come  kiss  me,  my  child,  and  don't 
sob  so;  you  are  on  my  lap,  and  your  crying  jars  my 
lame  foot." 

"Oh,  grandmother,"  said  the  little  girl,  "tell  the 
gentleman  why  we  don't  want  to  go  away  from  this 
pleasant  house," — and  she  pointed  to  a  small  enclo- 
sure on  a  rising  hill  a  little  way  from  the  road. 

"  It  is  a  burial  ground,  your  honour,"  said  Mrs. 
M'Curdy  in  a  low  subdued  tone,  "and  under  that 
old  hemlock  tree  poor  Norah's  mother  lies  buried." 

Mr.  Price,  whose  sympathies  had  been  long  pent 
up;  in  fact,  who  had  been  soured  towards  all  the 
world ;  for  his  disappointment  both  in  his  marriage 
and  in  his  only  child,  had  been  severely  felt;  now 
suffered  himself  to  be  deeply  interested  in  the  fate 
of  this  innocent  family,  he  pressed  the  child  closer 

Q 


178  THE  SEVEN   SHANTIES. 

to  his  bosom,  and  resolved  that  he  would  immedi- 
ately place  her  and  her  grandmother  above  want. 
But  this  sudden  thawing  of  his  feelings  produced  a 
kindlier  interest  towards  others;  he  saw  a  mass  of 
suffering  in  this  little  community  which  he  thought 
could  be  alleviated  without  much  trouble  or  ex- 
pense, and  his  quick  apprehension  soon  pointed  out 
the  way.  He  put  Norah  down  from  his  lap,  asked 
for  his  portfolio,  and  in  a  few  moments  a  letter  was 
written  and  despatched  to  a  gentleman  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

"Now  my  good  Mrs.  M'Curdy,  bring  your  work 
in  this  room,  and  tell  me  all  about  your  neighbours 
— tell  me  exactly  how  things  are ;  I  do  not  ask  out 
of  idle  curiosity,  but  I  have  a  plan  in  my  mind 
which  I  think  will  be  of  service  to  them.  I  have 
an  eye  to  you,  too;  I  have  become  interested  in  you 
and  your  little  girl,  and  I  should  like  to  leave  you 
in  a  better  neighbourhood.  Only  don't  call  me 
your  honour,  but  Mr.  Price ;  I  hate  your  honour." 

"  Well,  sir,  here  is  my  work,  and  I  can't  do  bet- 
ter than  just  to  say  a  little  more  about  myself.  You 
see  my  pride,  for  I  had  a  good  bringing  up,  would 
not  let  me  live  along  so  lazily  and  so  miserably  as 
the  poor  people  around  me;  besides,  times  in  one  re- 
spect, were  better  eight  years  ago  than  they  are 
now,  at  least  for  poor  women  I  mean.  The  ladies' 
societies  had  not  then  found  us  out,  and  widow  wo- 
men and  young  girls  got  plenty  of  sewing  to  do,  and 
for  a  decent  price  too.  I  could  then  earn  from  three 
to  four  shillings  a  day,  and  there  never  was  a  time, 
until  a  month  before — Norah,  dear,  put  chips  under 
the  pot,  will  you  love,  and  then  set  the  milk  pans  in 
the  sun,  and  be  sure  and  put  on  your  bonnet — I 
never  like  to  speak  of  my  poor  daughter  before  the 
tender  hearted  little  thing  ;  for  although  she  was  but 
little   more   than  five  vears  old  when    her  mother 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  179 

died,  yet  she  recollects  her  perfectly,  and  all  her 
nice  orderly  ways,  and  how  she  taught  her  to  read 
and  sew  and  pray.  She  says  the  same  prayers  yet, 
sir,  and  indeed  no  better  can  be  taught  her.  But 
as  I  was  saying  when  I  sent  Norah  out,  there  never 
was  a  time  until  a  month  before  my  daughter  died, 
that  she  did  not,  weakly  and  drooping  as  she  was, 
earn  two  shillings  a  day.  Had  she  lived  till  now, 
she  would  have  found  an  alteration." 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  to  deprive  you  of 
work?  your  town  has  increased  in  numbers  greatly 
since  that  time." 

"  I'll  tell  you,  sir.  Then,  when  ladies  of  large  fa- 
milies had  more  linen  to  make  up  than  they  or  their 
maids  could  do,  they  gave  a  poor  woman  a  chance ; 
there  were  then  three  ladies  in  this  very  town,  that 
gave  me  every  year,  a  set  of  shirts  to  make;  and 
my  daughter  made  pincushions,  and  thread  cases, 
and  night  caps,  and  darned  silk  stockings  for  gen- 
tlemen, and  made  linen  gloves,  all  so  neatly  and 
prettily,  that  the  price  she  got  for  them  purchased 
all  our  little  comforts;  but  as  soon  as  the  societies 
found  us  out,  as  I  said  before,  the  ladies  of  the  town 
themselves  undertook  to  make  all  these  things." 

"  But  if  that  was  a  saving  to  their  families,  my 
good  friend,  it  was  all  perfectly  right." 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  for  their  families  that  they  met 
together  to  sew;  sometimes  it  was  for  a  Dorcas  so- 
ciety, sometimes  for  a  Sunday  school,  sometimes  for 
an  Infants'  school,  sometimes  to  get  a  church  out  of 
debt,  or  to  buy  an  organ;  and  oftentimes  to  educate 
young  men  for  the  ministry.  For  all  the  purposes 
I  have  mentioned,  excepting  that  of  educating  young 
men,  I  found  some  excuse,  but  I  own  I  did  inwardly 
fret  and  find  fault,  with  the  kind-hearted  women 
who  belong  to  these  societies,  when  they  neglected 
their  own  families,  and  let  us  poor  women  who 


180  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

were  willing  to  work,  starve,  while  they  did  the 
things  by  which  we  formerly  earned  our  bread." 

"  Why  do  not  the  young  men  work  for  them- 
selves, or  why  are  there  not  societies  of  young  men 
for  these  purposes;  surely  men  can  labour,  and  at 
more  trades  too  than  women  can — mechanics  I 
mean,  and  rich  young  men,  they  can  contribute  in 
money." 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  is  what  I  said  when  these  ladies 
came  to  me  and  begged  me  to  sew  one  day  for  this 
purpose;  for  seeing  me  a  little  better  off  than  my 
poor  neighbours,  they  thought  I  was  quite  too  well 
off.  God  forgive  me  for  my  uncharitableness,  but 
I  looked  at  smart  little  Norah,  and  was  thinking 
how  much  at  that  moment  she  wanted  a  good  warm 
cloak  for  winter,  so  with  all"  the  willingness  in  the 
world,  my  love  for  the  child  got  the  better  of  my 
wish  to  oblige  the  ladies." 

"  In  some  parts  of  Connecticut,  the  young  men 
destined  for  the  church,  work  for  themselves." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  hear  they  do,  and  why  should  nc 
they  as  well  as  artists  and  lawyers  and  doctors. 
Those  who  are  poor  find  ways  and  means  to  edu- 
cate themselves;  they  go  in  gentlemen's  houses  and 
teach  children,  or  they  teach  school,  or  write;  in 
short,  a  man  has  ways  and  means  enough  if  he 
chooses." 

"  This  is  all  very  true,  Mrs.  M'Curdy;  I  taught 
school  myself,  and  besides  lhat  I  laboured  in  a  gar- 
den for  two  years  for  my  food  and  lodging.  With 
the  profits  of  my  school  I  bought  books,  and  g« 
myself  instructed  in  book-keeping  and  French;  I 
had  besides,  two  hundred  dollars  in  hand,  to  pay  my 
board  when  I  went  as  merchant's  clerk.  In  five 
years  I  was  sent  out  as  supercargo,  and  from  that 
hour  I  began  to  make  money.  But  I  think  you 
would  not  complain  if  these  ladies  were  to  raise  a 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  181 

fund  for  the  education  of  females,  not  to  preach,  but 
to  teach." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  that  is  what  I  have  often  thought 
would  be  more  creditable  to  them,  and  there  is  not 
a  poor  body  who  would  not  join  in  it.  I  have  often 
thought  how  happy  I  should  be,  if  at  my  death,  I 
could  leave  Norah  at  the  head  of  a  good  school ; 
instead  of  knowing,  as  I  do,  that  she  must  be  put  out 
to  service,  nay,  bound  out,  as  a  common  kitchen 
girl,  if  I  should  die  before  she  grows  up." 

"  You  need  not  fear  that,  my  good  friend,  I  shall 
take  care  of  that;  but  let  us  leave  that  subject  for 
the  present.  I  have  heard  your  grievances,  and  you 
do  not  complain  without  cause.  As  to  the  women 
working  for  missionaries,  unless  it  be  for  mission- 
aries who  go  out  to  teach  reading  and  writing,  and 
the  English  or  French  language,  I  think  they  will 
soon  feel  a  little  ashamed  of  it ;  and  men  will  be 
ashamed  to  be  under  such  an  obligation  to  women. 
We  will  try  and  get  up  societies  among  the  young 
(nen,  and  then  women  will  direct  their  charities  to 
their  own  sex." 

"  I  wish  they  would  do  this,  but  I  am  afraid  it 
will  be  a  long  time  before  men  will  give  their  time 
and  money  to  such  purposes.  Why,  I  hear  they  buy 
things  at  the  ladies'  fairs  very  reluctantly,  and  there 
are  very  few  who  give  money  to  their  societies  wil- 
lingly. I  know  that  the  two  young  men  I  wash  for, 
Mr.  Green  and  Mr.  Wilber,  often  make  fun  of  these 
ladies,  and  say  they  only  do  it  to  show  themselves, 
and  to  be  talked  about.  Men  are  very  ill-natured 
in  these  matters.  For  my  part,  I  think  that  ladies 
should  teach  at  Sunday  schools,  if  they  are  so  bene- 
volently disposed,  and  in  Infant  schools,  and  inDor- 
•  •n.s  societies;  which  Dorcas  societies  should  be  for 
the  relief  of  poor,  sick  women,  but  men  should  give 
the-  funds,  and  poor  women  should  do  the  work  and  be 
paid  for  it.  This  /think  is  the  proper  way;  as  it  is, 
Q  2 


182  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

these  societies  create  a  great  deal  of  distress,  by 
sewing  themselves.  And  as  to  Sunday  schools,  the 
excellent  persons  who  first  set  them  going,  did  not 
intend  them  for  the  children  of  rich  parents.  I  am 
not  the  one  however,  to  put  this  matter  in  its  pro- 
per light ;  the  evil  of  the  thing  will  soon  be  seen,  and 
then  there  will  be  a  cure.  But  I  am  talking  quite 
astray  ;  you  wanted  to  hear  about  my  neighbours, 
and  I  have  gone  off  to  other  matters." 

"I  am  glad  of  it,  if  I  have  the  means  of  doing 
your  poor  neighbours  a  little  good,  I  should  know 
wyhere  the  grievance  lies;  this  will  enable  me  to  ap- 
ply a  remedy.  I  shall  bear  it  in  mind;  at  present 
we  will  speak  of  the  poor  people  immediately  around 
you.  You  are  on  the  edge  of  the  common,  who  is 
your  next  neighbour'?  It  is  Jemmv  Brady,  is  it 
not  V 

"  Yes,  poor  Jemmy  lives  there,  and  a  better  tem- 
pered fellow  never  lived;  but  ill  luck  pursues  him  in 
every  thing  he  does,  and  I  cannot  think  that  any 
thing  can  improve  his  condition.  He  has  lived  in 
that  poor  shanty  these  seven  years,  and  has  never 
yet  been  able  to  put  a  floor  to  it,  let  alone  a  chim- 
ney. To  be  sure,  they  have  a  stove  in  winter,  and 
in  summer  they  set  their  pot  over  stones,  yet  it  is  a 
poor  way  of  living.  The  two  eldest  boys  that  you 
saw  fighting  this  morning,  did  work  a  litile  in  the 
paper  mill,  but  the  confinement  made  them  sick,  at 
least  one  of  them  became  sick,  and  the  other  had  to 
come  home  to  help  his  mother  nurse  him,  for  her 
other  children  were  too  young  to  bring  her  a  pail 
of  water  even." 

"  Do  you  ever  go  into  their  cabin  ?" 

"Do  1?  yes,  sure.  I  go  in  every  now  and  then, 
particularly  when  she's  confined.  If  her  neigh- 
bours did  not  go  in  to  make  her  a  little  gruel,  and 
look  after  the  children,  they  must  perish;  and  the 
Catholic  women,  we  are  all  Catholics   here,  sir,  are 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  183 

very  good  to  one  another.  '  'Tis  the  poor  man 
alone  that  hears  the  poor  man,'  you  know,  sir;  but 
I  am  thankful  that  Biddy  Brady  is  the  worst  off; 
that  is,  I  am  thankful  that  there  are  no  more  so 
very  badly  off;  if  there  were,  I  do  not  know  what 
we  should  do." 

"  Does  not  Jemmy  like  to  work 2  he  is  a  strong, 
healthy  looking  man." 

"  Why,  he  likes  to  work,  and  he  does  not  like  to 
work;  he  was  bred  up  to  do  just  nothing  at  all;  but 
he  can  write  a  good  hand,  and  is  a  good  weaver 
enough,  but  no  one  wants  a  clerk  looking  so  ragged 
and  dirty  as  Jemmy;  and  no  one  weaves  now  in  a 
small  way.  If  he  had  a  loom  by  himself  he  could 
earn  a  little;  that  is,  if  he  could  have  other  employ- 
ment with  it;  for  Jemmy,  unlike  Irishmen  in  gene- 
ral, cnnnot  bear  to  keep  all  day  at  one  thing." 

Mr.  Price  set  down  this  man's  name,  and  the  ages 
of  his  children,  desiring  Mrs.  M'Curdy  to  proceed 
to  the  next  shanty. 

"  Next  to  Jemmy  Brady,  lives  lame  David,  a  poor 
drunken  creature;  he  has  an  aged  mother,  two  sis- 
ters, a  wife  and  one  child.  He  is  a  blacksmith,  and 
could  get  good  wages  throughout  the  year  if  he 
would  only  keep  sober.  His  son  bids  fair  to  be  a 
decent  honest  man ;  but  the  child,  now  only  four- 
teen, works  beyonds  his  strength,  and  his  poor  mo- 
ther was  telling  me  the  other  day  that  he  had  dread- 
ful night  sweats,  and  is  losing  his  appetite.  I  wish 
you  could  see  this  boy,  sir,  I  am  sure  you  would 
think  he  is  overworked." 

"  Don't  his  employers  take  notice  of  it?" 

"Why,  yes,  they  tell  him  not  to  work  so  hard; 
but  men  have  not  time  to  attend  to  such  things; 
if  they  were  to  notice  the  ailings  of  all  their  work 
people  they  could  never  get  on — no,  when  poor 
people  get  sick  they  must  go  home  and  trust  to  their 
family  for  help.     Patrick  Conolly  is  an  ill-favoured 


184  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

looking  lad;  he  is  red-haired,  freckled  and  bandy- 
legged ;  yet  for  all  that  he  is  a  very  interesting 
child,  at  least  to  his  mother,  grandmother  and  aunts, 
to  say  nothing  of  myself.  I  wish  the  lad  could  be 
sent  to  school,  he  has  been  so  decently  brought  up, 
that  I  am  sure  he  would  make  a  good  school  mas- 
ter to  the  poor  Catholic  children." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  M'Curdy,  your  wish  shall  be  grati- 
fied; Patrick  Conolly  shall  be  sent  to  a  good  school 
for  one  year;  nay,  don't  stop  to  thank  me,  it  will 
cost  me  nothing.  How  do  the  women,  his  aunts 
and  mother,  maintain  themselves  V* 

"  They  wash  for  the  men  at  the  forge  and  the 
quarry ;  and  they  pick  blackberries  in  the  season, 
and  they  go  out  to  day's  work  to  clean  house  and 
so  on,  and  the  old  woman  patches  and  mends  and 
knits.  They  are  as  industrious  as  possible, but  they 
barely  make  out  to  keep  life  and  body  together;  for 
money  is  scarce  and  women  are  plenty.  If  the  man 
only  was  sober  it  would  do  very  well,  but  he  is  so 
notorious  a  drunkard  that  he  can  get  no  work 
during  the  few  days  he  is  sober." 

"  And  thus  the  peace  and  well  doing  of  a  whole 
family  are  destroyed  by  the  beastliness  of  one  man. 
Who  lives  next  to  lame  David  ?' 

"Ah!  then  comes  Larry  M'Gilpin — there's  an 
honest  creature  spoiled,  sir,  by  too  much  willing- 
ness to  help  others.  He  is  always  too  late  at  the 
forge  or  the  quarry,  or  the  mill,  for  he  is  never 
steady  at  one  place,  because  he  has  to  help  one 
neighbour  look  for  his  run-a-way  pig,  or  to  put  up 
a  fence,  or  to  run  for  a  doctor,  or  something  or 
other.  Every  body  calls  upon  Larry  M'Gilpin,  but 
no  one  does  a  thing  for  him.  I  never  heard  of  any 
one  doing  him  a  good  turn  but  yourself,  sir,  and  it 
was  but  small  service  he  did  for  you.  I  try  to  be 
of  use  to  him  as  far  as  I  can,  and  Norah  teaches  his 
little  girl  to  read,  which  you  know  is  something ; 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  185 

but  his  wages,  somehow  or  other,  amounts  to  very 
little  the  year  out.  How  they  contrive  to  live  I  can- 
not tell;' for  they  have  five  children,  all  living  in  one 
room,  and  on  the  bare  ground  too.  To  be  sure,  he 
has  a  chimney  in  it,  and  in  winter  they  can  keep 
themselves  warm  when  they  have  wood  to  burn; 
but  they  do  certainly  live  on  less  means  than  any 
family  I  know.  I  do  not  wonder  she  has  the  name 
of  dirty  Rachel;  for  how  can  a  poor  creature  keep 
a  husband  and  five  children  clean,  when  she  has  not 
money  to  buy  soap  even.  But  they  are  a  quiet,  well 
behaved  set,  and  disturb  no  one.  Larry  keeps  the 
children  around  him,  and  by  his  eternal  good  hu- 
mour and  pleasant  ways  he  has  contrived  to  make 
us  all  like  him ;  so  one  throws  him  this  thing  and  the 
other  that;  and  your  little  bounties  have  come  in  a 
very  good  time.  He  only  wishes,  he  says,  that  such 
gentlemen  as  you  would  sprain  their  ankle  every 
day." 

"  Is  his  wife  lazy  ? — does  she  take  in  work,  or  go 
out  to  work  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  that  she  is  lazy — only  spiritless  like. 
You  know  a  woman  with  five  children,  the  oldest 
only  eight  years  old,  cannot  be  expected  to  do  much 
more  than  take  care  of  them;  and  yet  Rachel 
would  be  willing  to  make  a  coarse  shirt  now  and 
then,  if  the  price  was  not  next  to  nothing.  But 
next  to  Larry  M'Gilpin,  lives  the  woman  of  women ! 
Here,  just  let  me  lift  up  this  sash,  sir,  for  one  mi- 
nute— now  listen — do  you  hear  any  thing  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  hear  some  one  singing;  do  I  not?" 

"You  do;  that  is  Bonny  Betty,  as  the  ladies  call 
her.  She  is  a  very  large,  bony  woman,  full  six 
feet  high,  and  well  looking  too.  She  works  from 
morning  till  night,  and  has  contrived  to  maintain 
herself  and  six  children  without  the  help  of  a  human 
being,  and  not  one  child  to  do  a  turn  for  her,  in  the 
way  of  earning  money,  I  mean.    Her  husband  died 


186  THE  SEVEN  SHANT1E&. 

a  drunkard;  she  buried  him  three  years  ago,  and 
from  that  hour  she  seemed  to  alter  her  very  nature. 
Before  that,  she  used  to  go  about  the  country  to 
beg,  carrying  all  the  children  with  her;  and,  when 
far  away  from  home,  would  sleep  in  outhouses  and 
barns.  With  the  little  money  she  gathered  in  this 
way,  she  bought  wood  and  other  necessaries  for 
the  winter,  mending  up  the  rags  she  had  begged, 
and  preparing  for  a  trampse  in  the  summer,  may 
be  with  an  additional  child  on  her  arm.  As  soon 
as  Christie  Kelley  died,  she  bought  a  broom,  the 
first  over  seen  in  her  house,  swept  the  two  rooms 
of  her  shanty  clean, — pulled  out  an  old  leather 
glove  from  her  huge' pocket,  and  counted  out  fifty 
dollars  in  notes  and  silver.  'Now,  Mrs.  M'Curdy,' 
said  she,  'you're  a  sensible  woman;  sit  down  by 
me  and  tell  me  how  I  had  best  lay  out  all  this 
money.  I  kept  it  unknown  to  poor  Christie,  and  a 
little  more  too — how  else  could  he  have  been  buried 
so  decently?'  In  a  little  time,  sir,  with  her  pru- 
dence in  laying  out  this  money,  her  cabin  got  to 
look  as  well  as  mine,  barring  that  six  ailing  chil- 
dren will  make  a  litter  and  some  noise." 

"  How  does  she  maintain  herself,  if  work  is  so 
scarce,  and  what  is  the  matter  with  her  children?" 

"  How  does  she  maintain  herself?  why,  in  the 
strangest  way  you  ever  heard  of.  She  does  every 
thing  and  any  thing.  In  the  morning  she  finds  out 
which  of  the  children  are  likeliest  to  be  the  sickest 
through  the  day ;  these  she  carries  with  her,  for 
she  is  a  powerful,  strong  woman ;  and  into  a  house 
she  goes,  seats  the  children  in  an  obscure  corner, 
and  falls  to  work — nothing  comes  amiss.  If  it  is 
washing  day,  she  is  up  to  her  elbows  in  the  suds 
before  the  lady  of  the  house  is  up,  and  nothing  but 
a  constable  will  force  her  out  till  she  has  done  two 
women's  work,  has  eaten  three  hearty  meals,  and 
fed  the  ailing  children  with  such  little  scraps  as 


THE  SEVEN   SHANTIES.  187 

their  feeble  health  requires.  She  then  gathers  up 
the  children,  and,  with  a  basket  added  to  her  load, 
off  she  goes  to  feed  those  at  home  with  the  savoury 
scraps  in  her  basket.  When  she  forces  her  way 
into  a  house  she  takes  no  money,  contenting  herself 
with  receiving  broken  meat  for  her  pay,  and  if 
there  is  more  than  enough  for  the  family,  she  takes 
it  in  to  Biddy  Brady,  or  to  one  poor  body  or  other. 
But  this  vagrant  disposition  is  fast  leaving  her,  for 
she  is  so  useful  and  so  cheerful  that  there  are  very 
few  families  that  can  do  without  her.  She  scents 
a  dinner  or  a  tea  party  at  a  great  distance,  and  she 
gets  there  in  the  nick  of  time  to  be  of  service.  She 
makes  yeast,  soap,  candles,  bread, — whitewashes, 
takes  out  grease  and  stains,  paints  rooms,  mends 
broken  windows  and  china, — cuts  better  cold  slaw, 
as  the  Dutch  call  it,  finer  and  quicker  than  any  one, 
— makes  sourcrout,  pickles  and  preserves, — knows 
how  to  put  up  shad  and  smoke  herrings;  in  short, 
in  her  ramblings  she  watched  the  different  ways  of 
doing  things,  and  now  she  sets  up  for  herself.  You 
cannot  think  what  a  really  useful  woman  Bonny 
Betty  is;  it  is  a  pity  that  the  children  are  so 
sickly." 

"Has  she  a  doctor? — does  she  ever  consult  a 
doctor?" 

"A  doctor!  why  they  are  all  more  or  less  de- 
formed. Ben,  the  eldest,  has  a  great  wen  over  his  left 
eye  which  has  nearly  destroyed  his  sight;  Kate, 
the  next,  has  a  broken  back,  and  is  lame;  Jemmy 
is  one  sore  from  head  to  foot,  and  has  been  in  that 
way  for  four  years;  Bob  is  a  thin,  sickly  boy,  that 
lias  fainty  turns, and  is  beginning  to  lose  his  hearing; 
Susy  is  deaf  and  dumb;  and  little  Christie,  only 
four  years  old,  has  the  dropsy." 

"  Good  heavens !  and  this  woman  is  cheerful,  and 
maintains  them   all  with  the   labour    of  her    own 


188  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

"Yes,  and  is  laying  up  money.  She  has  nearly 
a  hundred  dollars  in  the  Savings  Fund  ;  her  children 
are  well  clothed  for  poor  people's  children,  and 
well  fed ;  she  has  two  pigs  in  the  pen ;  and  she  and 
I  are  the  only  persons  in  the  neighbourhood  that 
keep  a  cow.  She  has  a  fresh  cow  in  the  fall  and  I 
in  the  spring ;  so  we  both  do  well  by  them.  I  wish 
she  had  a  better  shanty." 

"  Well,  I  shall  make  acquaintance  with  Bonny 
Betty  ;  who  comes  next?" 

"  Sammy  Oram  is  the  sixth ;  he  is  a  shoemaker, 
a  poor,  do-little  kind  of  man,  with  five  boys;  he  is 
a  widower.  Three  of  his  boys  work  at  times  in 
the  cotton  factory  and  at  times  in  the  paper  mill ; 
but  Sammy  talks  of  going  to  Philadelphia,  and  so 
gel  rid  of  them  all  at  once;  for  he  calls  his  boys 
orphans,  and  he  thinks  as  they  were  all  born  there, 
(for  he  only  came  here  about  five  years  ago,)  he 
can  get  them  in  the  Girard  College.  I  wish  he 
may,  I  am  sure.  Next  to  him  lives  an  old  man 
with  one  leg.  He  was  once  a  good  gardener,  they 
say,  but  it  is  many  years  since  he  had  to  quit  the 
trade  owing  to  a  white  swelling  which  finally 
caused  him  to  lose  his  leg.  He  lives  alone,  and 
maintains  himself  by  making  mats  and  brooms  and 
such  things;  he  is  a  "very  honest,  sober  man,  and 
would  make  a  good  overseer,  or  some  such  thing, 
if  any  body  knew  his  worth ;  but  he  is  shy  and 
melancholy  like  for  an  Irishman,  and  we  often  think 
he  suffers  in  winter  for  comforts;  but  he  never 
complains,  and  if  people  never  complain,  you  know, 
why  no  one  will  thrust  kindness  on  them." 

"But  there  is  Bonny  Betty,  with  six  helpless 
children — you  see  that  she  can  get  along." 

"  Yes,  sir, — but  Betty  is  a  woman,  and  somehow 
they  have  a  higher  spirit  than  a  man.  Why,  a  man 
would  have  broken  down  if  he  had  been  left  with 
six  such  children  as  she  has,  or  if  he  had  not  sunk, 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  189 

he  would  have  run  away  and  left  them  to  Provi- 
dence. You  have  no  idea,  sir,  how  long  a  poor 
woman  will  bear  up  against  every  evil  and  misfor- 
tune if  she  has  children  dependent  upon  her." 

"  You  have  now  told  me  the  little  history  of 
the  Seven  Shanties,  but  has  no  one  a  garden  but 
yourself.  I  should  think  that  the  man  you  men- 
tioned last — what's  his  name? — the  man  with  one 
leg — he  ought  to  have  a  garden." 

"Daniel  M'Leary, — yes,  he  might  do  a  little  in 
that  way,  but  for  two  reasons;  one  is  that  he  can- 
not dig,  for  his  back  is  weak, — and  a  better  reason 
still  is,  that  there's  never  a  shanty  but  mine  that  has 
a  bit  of  land  to  it.  Daniel  M'Leary  has  not  even 
enough  for  a  pig  pen  if  he  had  wherewithal  to  feed 
a  pig.  He  has  done,  however,  all  that  man  could 
do  ;  he  has  planted  a  grape  vine  behind  his  shanty, 
and  last  summer,  being  the  third  year  of  its  bear- 
ing, he  sold  from  it  five  dollars'  worth  of  grapes. 
He  gave  me  some  cuttings;  I  planted  them  against 
the  back  of  my  shanty  which  faces  the  south,  and 
last  summer  two  of  them  had  a  few  bunches  on 
them,  but  the  children  pulled  them  off  before  they 
were  ripe.  1  don't  think,  however,  it  was  the 
neighbours'  children." 

The  next  day  Mr.  Price  was  able  to  get  out  of 
the  little  room  and  enjoy  the  fresh  air  of  the  open 
commons.  He  saw,  what  Mrs.  M'Curdy  said,  that 
the  shanties  had  no  ground  attached  to  them.  In 
front  was  the  road,  and  behind  a  precipitous  bank, 
scarcely  a  foot-path  behind  that  of  Bonny  Betty. 
Yet  these  poor  people  paid  from  ten  to  twelve  dol- 
lars a  year  for  a  piece  of  ground  not  more  than 
twenty  feet  square.  Mrs.  M'Curdy  was  on  the 
edge  of  a  common,  and  her  plot  took  in  a  strip  of 
land  about  twenty  by  a  hundred  feet ;  this  was  the 
admiration  and  envy  of  the  neighbours,  who  all  ima- 
gined that  if  they  only  had  "  the  luck  to  get  such  a 

R 


1U0  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

bit  garding  spot"  they  would  thrive  as  well  as  Mrs. 
M'Curdy. 

At  noon  a  gentleman  called  on  Mr.  Price  ;  he 
was  the  owner  of  some  of  the  land  thereabout,  and 
likewise  of  the  little  strip  on  which  all  the  shanties, 
excepting  Mrs.  M'Curdy's,  stood.  He  came  by  con- 
sequence of  the  letter  which  Mr.  Price  had  written 
to  him  the  day  before,  and  being  a  sensible  and 
considerate  man,  he  was  soon  convinced  by  this 
gentleman's  arguments  that  some  change  in  the 
circumstances  of  these  poor  people,  his  tenants, 
would  be  beneficial  to  him  as  well  as  to  them.  He 
finally  agreed  to  lease  to  Mr.  Price  a  piece  of  land 
not  more  than  a  few  rods'  distance  from  the  shan- 
ties; it  was  to  be  about  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet 
square.     It  was  leased  for  twelve  years. 

As  money  can  command  any  thing,  in  two  weeks 
two  hundred  loads  of  manure  were  spread  over 
this  spot  and  ploughed  in,  and  a  good  rough  board 
fence  enclosed  the  whole,  with  a  wide  gate  in  the 
centre  of  each  side.  Near  the  upper  gate,  under  a 
large  hemlock,  a  comfortable  shanty  was  built,  well 
floored,  with  two  rooms,  and  a  chimney  between. 
On  the  lower  side  was  another,  only  larger,  having 
four  small  rooms;  this  was  shaded  by  a  fine  silver 
pine.  This  shanty  guarded  the  south  gate.  The 
fence  and  gates,  all  the  posts  being  made  of  cedar, 
cost  Mr.  Price  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  the 
manure  and  ploughing  were  one  hundred  more,  the 
two  shanties  cost  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
Furniture  for  the  two  shanties,  grape  vines,  currant 
bushes,  strawberry  plants,  garden  seeds,  two  carts, 
six  wheelbarrows,  and  other  garden  tools,  with 
a  shed  to  .keep  them  in,  cost  four  hundred  dollars 
more.  Here  was  an  expenditure  of  the  round  sum 
of  ten  hundred  dollars.  The  interest  of  this  at  six 
per  cent,  amounted  only  to  sixty  dollars,  and  he 
was  only  charged  one  hundred  and  forty  dollars 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  191 

for  the  rent  of  the  land,  so  that  the  interest  of  the 
monev  was  but  two  hundred  dollars  a  year.  What 
was  this  to  a  man  worth  twelve  thousand  a  year  ? 

Mr.  Price,  quick  in  planning  and  executing,  soon 
arranged  every  thing  to  his  mind,  and  what  was 
extraordinary,  to  the  liking  of  every  one.  In  ten 
days  he  installed  Daniel  M'Leary  in  the  north 
shanty,  giving  him  the  key  of  the  north,  east  and 
west  gates;  in  the  south  shanty,  he  placed  Bonny- 
Betty  and  her  six  helpless  children;  and  a  day  it 
was  to  see,  for  both  he  and  Mrs.  M 'Curdy,  as  well 
as  dear  little  Norah,  kept  the  thing  a  profound 
secret.  The  first  intimation  Bonny  Betty  had  of 
the  good  luck,  was  in  the  morning  of  the  day  of  her 
removal ;  Mrs.  M'Curdy  called  in  by  accident,  as  it 
were,  and  observed  that  she  should  not  be  sur- 
prised if  Mr.  Price  were  to  call  in  and  see  about 
the  wen  on  Benny's  forehead;  "so  Betty,  my 
friend,  suppose  you  red  up  the  children  a  little; 
here  is  Susan  quite  able,  I  am  sure,  to  lend  a  hand, 
deaf  and  dumb  though  the  poor  little  thing  is.  See 
how  handy  she  goes  to  work." 

"If you  thought  he'd  be  coming  Sally,  why  I'd 
leave  my  work,  and  put  on  their  Sunday  clothes  ; 
but  poor  little  Jemmy  is  very  feverish  to-day,  and 
Christie's  le^s  are  more  swelled  than  common;  are 
you  sure  he'll  be  coming  this  way  V 

"No,  I  am  not  sure,  but  at  any  rate  red  up  the 
children,  for  who  knows  what  may  happen;  you're 
an  honest  industrious  woman,  and  you  may  well  be 
called  Bonny  Betty;  I  think  ye'll  eat  your  dinner  in 
a  better  house  than  this  ere  you  die  ;  good  folks  are 
not  always  neglected." 

Well,  Bonny  Betty  left  her  work,  and  in  an 
hour  the  poor  little  creatures  were  dressed  in  their 
best;  and  atten  o'clock,  Mrs.  M'Curdy  and  Norah, 
with  all  the  women  of  the  other  shanties,  as  well  as 
those  children  that  were  at  home,  proceeded  to  her 


192  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

house,  and  asked  her  to  take  a  walk  and  look  at  the 
gentleman's  improvements.  On  being  urged  by 
Mrs.  M'Curdy,  whom  she  very  much  respected,  and 
seeing  the  eager  looks  of  the  children,  she  sat  out 
with  them.  AW  was  wonderment  and  pleasure  when 
they  got  to  the  shanty,  for  the  pots  were  boiling, 
and  the  meat  was  roasting,  loaves  of  bread,  and 
plates  of  butter,  and  gingerbread,  and  small  cakes, 
were  all  paraded  on  a  clean  new  table;  in  short,  a 
house-warming  was  prepared  for  someone. 

"  Oh  !  if  all  this  was  for  me  and  my  poor  chil- 
dren," thought  Bonny  Betty,  "  how  happy  I  should 
be;  but  then  there's  the  other  poor  bodies,  I'm  think- 
ing, wishing  the  same  thing,  and  sure,  have  not  they 
as  good  a  right  as  met" 

"Now  Betty,  did  not  I  tell  you,  that  you'd  eat  your 
dinner  in  a  better  house  than  your  old  ricketty  for- 
lorn one?  You  are  in  your  own  house  now,  Bonny 
Betty !  for  the  good  kind  man,  God  bless  him,  has 
bid  me  tell  you,  that  by  giving  him  the  same  rent 
that  you  pay  for  that  old  one,  you  may  live  in  this 
nice  comfortable  house." 

There  was  a  general  cry  of  joy ;  and  Bonny  Bet- 
ty fell  on  her  knees,  and  bade  ihem  all  kneel  down 
with  her,  and  pray  that  she  might  continue  to  de- 
serve this  great  good.  Every  thing  was  of  the 
plainest  materials,  wooden  presses,  wooden  bed- 
steads; in  short,  though  all  was  new,  yet  there  was 
nothing  better  than  poor  people  generally  buy;  but 
what  went  most  to  Betty's  heart,  were  the  neat 
comfortable  beds  for  her  children,  and  the  nice 
kitchen  furniture,  and  the  shed  for  the  cow. 

After  they  had  dined,  and  assisted  in  washing  up 
the  plates  and  pots,  the  neighbours  after  again 
wishing  her  joy  departed,  and  left  her  "alone  in  her 
glory,"  and  no  creature  could  be  happier  nor  more 
thankful.     It  cannot   be  doubted  that  she   prayed 


THE  SEVEN   SHANTIES.  193 

most  fervently,  and  that  she  slept  soundly  on  her 
clean  strnvv  bed  that  night. 

Jn  the  morning,  Mr.  Price  sent  for  Jemmy  Brady, 
Larry  M'Gilpin,  David  Conolly,  Sammy  Oram, 
and  Daniel  M'Leary.  Through  respect  of  age,  he 
addressed  the  latter  first;  he  asked  him  if  he  liked 
his  new  quarters.  The  poor  Irishman  said,  he 
was  only  too  comfortable.  "  Well  then,"  said 
Mr.  Price,  "  I  hope  you  will  lend  a  hand  in  what  I 
propose  doing;  you  need  not  speak;  the  time  of 
these  men  is  precious;  I  know  you  will  assist  me, 
and  I  trust  as  I  leave  you  overseer,  or  agent,  or 
give  it  any  name  you  please,  over  that  square  of 
land  yonder,  you  will  follow  my  directions  strictly. 
They  are  these:  In  the  first  place,  you  are  to  open 
and  shut  three  of  the  gates,  keeping  the  keys  your- 
self; and  only  opening  them  for  carts  and  wagons, 
which  are  to  go  in  and  out,  whenever  the  tenants 
desire  it.  You  are  to  set  down  in  a  book,  how  many 
tools  each  man  takes  out  ever}'  day,  and  note  down 
such  as  are  not  brought  to  you  when  the  day  is 
ended.  All  the  tool"  are  to  be  mended  at  my  ex- 
pense for  one  year.  You  are  to  give  every  man  or 
-boy  as  much  seed  as  is  required ;  and  as  you  are,  I 
am  told,  a  good  gardener,  you  will  be  able  to  decide 
on  the  quantity  to  be  given.  This  is  all  I  can  re- 
collect to  ask  of  you  just  now;  excepting  further- 
more, to  set  down  the  names  of  such  men  and  chil- 
dren as  are  regular  at  their  work;  and  to  ask  each 
person  to  let  you  know  how  much  money  he  makes 
from  day  to  day,  all  of  which  you  must  commit  to 
writing.  I  do  not  wish  to  know  this  to  raise  the 
rent  on  the  tenants  of  that  piece  of  ground,  but  to 
know  to  whom  I  am  to  give  the  premium  in  the  fall. 
I  shall  be  here  in  November,  to  look  at  your  book. 
"i  ou  will  find  paper  and  pens  and  ink  in  abundance 
in  a  box,  which  I  shall  send  you  next  week.  Find 
out  the  men's  ages,  and  let  the  oldest  have  the  first 
r2 


194  THE  SEVEN   SHANTIES. 

choice  of  twenty-five  feet.  Good  morning  my 
friends — no  thanks — let  me  see  whom  I  am  to  thank 
in  November  next.  Here  M'Leary,  here  are  twen- 
ty-five dollars;  give  five  to  the  wife  of  each  man, 
keep  five  for  yourself,  and  give  a  dollar  a  piece  to 
Sammy  Oram's  boys.  I  hope  you'll  give  no  trouble 
to  Mr.  M'Leary,  and  that  people  will  come  far  and 
near  to  see  your  garden — Good  morning." 

This  thing  being  settled,  Mr.  Price  now  turned 
his  attention  to  his  new  friend  Mrs.  M'Curdy;  he 
asked  her  how  she  would  like  to  have  one  of  Da- 
vid Conolly's  sisters  to  live  with  her?  "  You  have 
given  me  so  good  a  character  of  her,"  said  he, 
"Nelly,  I  think  you  call  her,  that  I  should  like  her 
to  live  an  easier  and  a  happier  life.  She  is  younger 
than  yourself,  and  is  more'  able  to  do  the  rough 
work  of  the  house,  and  I  can  make  it  a  desirable 
thing,  for  I  will  allow  her  good  wages.  My  little 
Norah  must  not  labour  any  more;  I  want  her  to 
grow  tall  and  fair,  and  she  must  go  to  school  like- 
wise." 

Poor  Sally  did  not  like  this  part  of  the  arrange- 
ment, which  Mr.  Price  seeing,  he  observed,  that 
if  she  disliked  to  part  with  the  little  girl,  he  would 
make  another  arrangement;  but  at  any  rate  he 
should  consult  her  feelings  in  whatever  he  proposed. 
He  intended  to  give  her  pleasure  and  not  pain.  Re- 
formers and  patrons  were  too  apt,  he  knew,  to  order 
things  to  suit  their  own  views,  without  regard  to  the 
feelings  of  those  whom  they  wish  to  benefit.  At  any 
rate  one  thing  he  was  sure  would  give  her  pleasure, 
and  this  was  the  adding  a  small  house  to  the  shan- 
ty she  lived  in. 

The  house  was  soon  begun — it  was  to  be  a  neat 
two-storied  brick  house — and  while  it  was  building 
he  persuaded  Mrs.  M'Curdy  to  live  with  him,  leav- 
ing Nelly  Conolly  in  the  shanty  to  take  care  of  the 
furniture,  cow,  pigs  and  garden.     They  all  set  out 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  195 

together  in  a  week  from  that  time,  every  heart  bless- 
ing Mr.  Price,  and  lamenting  the  absence  of  the  old 
lady  and  Norah,  whose  neatness  and  kindness  of 
disposition  had  wrought  such  a  change  in  their 
prospects. 

Sammy  Oram  was  found  to  be  the  oldest  man  of 
the  four  candidates  ;  but  as  Bonny  Betty  had  testi- 
fied a  desire  to  hire  one  of  the  lots,  he  very  gallantly 
resigned  his  rights  of  seniority  to  her;  of  course  she 
chose  the  one  parallel  with  her  own  shanty;  she 
therefore,  had  one  of  the  centre  strips.  Sammy 
Oram  took  the  lot  adjoining;  at  which  Larry 
M'Gilpin  gave  a  knowing  wink  to  Jemmy  Brady. 
Jemmy  took  the  one  next  to  him,  being  the  corner 
lot.  Between  Bonny  Betty  and  the  next  lot  was  a 
cart  road  of  ten  feet;  Larry  had  the  one  adjoining 
the  road,  David  Conolly  the  next,  and  his  son  Pa- 
trick, with  Sammy  Oram's  two  oldest  boys  took  the 
corner  lot — making  in  all  six  different  tenants. 

Mr.  Price's  interest  in  this  little  community  did  not 
stop  here;  he  persuaded  Bonny  Betty  to  let  her  son 
Ben  go  to  the  hospital,  and  have  the  wen  on  his 
forehead  examined,  promising  that  he  would  himself 
pay  all  the  necessary  expenses;  such  as  suitable 
clothes,  travelling  charges  and  extra  nursing.  The 
boy  was  so  eager  and  the  neighbours  so  clamour- 
ous in  their  entreaties,  that  poor  Betty  gave  a  re- 
luctant assent.  Ben  went,  and  in  one  month  he 
returned  perfectly  cured — the  wen  taken  out,  and 
his  eye-sight  very  much  improved.  Kate  was  sent 
to  town  next,  and  by  means  of  Casey's  dormant  ba- 
lance, and  Mrs.  M'Curdv's  kind  treatment,  the  in- 
jured spine,  although  not  entirely  restored  to  its 
healthy  state,  was  prevented  from  further  distor- 
tion. She  remained  under  medical  care,  and  it  was 
owing  to  this  humane  and  judicious  treatment  that 
she  was  relieved  of  her  lameness,  a  lameness  caused 
by  general  debility.     A  few  bottles  of  Swaim's  pa- 


196  THE  SEVEN  SHAXTIES. 

nacea,  entirely  removed  the  scrofulous  complaint 
of  Jenny.  Bob  was  found  to  be  nearly  devoured  by 
worms:  the  doctor  of  the  village,  when  called  in, 
soon  removed  his  complaint,  and  his  hearing  im- 
proved as  his  stomach  recovered  its  tone.  But  poor 
liltle  Christie  was  beyond  cure;  he  died  in  the  fall 
to  the  very  great  grief  of  poor  Betty,  who  was  pas- 
sionately attached  to  her  children.  The  little  deaf 
and  dumb  girl  was  sent  to  the  asylum  in  Hartford, 
and  there  she  received  an  education,  which  fitted 
her  as  a  teacher  to  others  of  her  own  class.  The 
lifting  up  of  one  kind  hand  did  all  this  for  poor 
Bonny  Betty;  five  good  little  creatures,  heiplessand 
forlorn,  an  incumbrance  to  their  mother,  and  a  lax 
on  all  around  them,  were  thus  made  useful  mem- 
bers of  society  ;  whereas,  in  the  course  of  time,  they 
must  necessarily  have  gone  to  the  almshouse. 

But  lo  return  to  our  friends  in  the  shanties. 
Early,  full  an  hour  before  sunrise,  on  the  fifteenth 
of  April,  all  the  gardeners  were  at  work  under  old 
Daniel  M'Leary's  superintendence;  for  his  very 
youth  seemed  renewed,  so  much  was  he  raised  in 
his  own  estimation.  Instead  of  being  a  cumberer  of 
the  earth,  as  in  his  fits  of  despondency  he  used  to 
call  himself,  he  was  now  a  second  iN'npoleon  ruling 
over  the  destiny  of  others — their  well  doing  was 
entrusted  to  his  care,  and  many  were  his  mental 
promises  to  be  just — if  he  could  keep  them.  At  the 
sound  of  his  shrill  whistle  the  little  band  left  off 
work,  in  time  to  eat  their  breakfast,  and  be  ready 
to  go  to  their  several  employments  when  the  bells 
rung.  At  twelve  all  ate  their  dinner,  and  for  half 
an  hour  were  again  in  their  garden  plot  where  they 
wrought — and  pleasant  it  was  to  work  in  the  open 
air  under  such  a  glorious  sky,  with  more  satisfac- 
tion than  they  ever  did  in  their  lives;  for  the  pro- 
ceeds of  their  labour  was  their  own. 

Their   supper  was  ready   when    their    working 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  197 

hours  were  over,  and  once  more  they  went  up  to 
their  garden,  and  it  was  difficult  for  Daniel  to  per- 
suade them  to  leave  off  at  the  allotted  time.  Instead 
of  lounging  about  before  a  dram  shop,  which  was 
their  custom  in  the  evening,  and  often  becoming 
noisy  if  not  riotous,  they  went  quietly  to  bed  and 
slept  soundly.  Even  Pat  Conolly,  the  overworked 
boy  declared,  that  although  he  went  very  tired  to  his 
rest,  it  was  a  far  different  sort  of  fatigue  from  that 
which  he  nightly  felt  before. 

By  the  first  of  June,  the  whole  lot  was  one  beau- 
tiful green,  bright  spot.  The  land,  naturally  good, 
had  been  so  well  manured,  and  carefully  laboured, 
that  the  seeds  could  not  help  coming  up  freely.  But 
if  the  truth  must  be  tol(J,  Bonny  Betty  and  the  three 
boys'  gardens,  were  more  forward  than  the  rest;  at 
least  they  had  a  more  smiling  gay  look.  And  no 
wonder,  for  in  the  first  place,  women  and  children 
will  put  a  few  flower  seeds  in  the  garden;  in  the 
second  place,  the  boys  and  Betty  had  the  double 
advantage  of  working  in  the  afternoons,  as  Bonny 
Betty  having  a  little  shop,  scarcely  ever  went  out 
to  work  by  the  day,  and  the  children  only  worked 
half  a  day  in  the  mills  ;  and  lastly  Daniel  M'Leary 
lent  a  hand  "  to  beautify  the  women  and  childers' 
bit  garding." 

Every  one  in  the  neighbourhood  had  an  eye  on 
this  project,  and  every  one  predicted  that  the  wo- 
man and  boys  might  persevere,  but  that  Sammy 
Oram  would  give  out  first,  Davy  Conolly  next, 
Lazy  Jemmy  next,  and,  lastly,  Larry  M'Gilpin. 
Sammy  Oram  was  very  near  verifying  this  predic- 
tion in  consequence  of  "his  taking  it  into  his  head  to 
offer  himself  as  a  helpmate  to  Bonny  Betty;  but 
the  reader  shall  hear  the  progress  and  end  of  the 
affair  in  a  letter  received  by  Mr.  Price  from  Daniel 
M'Leary. 


198  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

"  Your  honour  asks  how  we  are  getting  on — O 
beautifully,  your  honour,  and  all  work  with  good 
heart,  with  a  pleasant  thought  of  your  praise  in  the 
fall.  lam  glad  your  honour  mistakes  about  Lazy 
Jemmy — Lazy  Jemmy  no  longer,  for  he's  here 
before  any  one,  and  brings  his  little  boy  with  him, 
and  because  there's  never  a  spade  small  enough 
for  so  young  a  boy,  he's  bought  him  one,  your 
honour.  I'm  thinking  Jemmy  will  hold  out,  and  his 
little  girrel,  I'm  tould,  is  crying  to  come  with  the 
daddy  to  help  too;  and  why  should  she  not?  for 
here's  Bonny  Betty's  little  Jenny,  now  quite  cured, 
God  bless  your  honour  for  ever  and  ever,  she 
weeds  and  helps  her  mother  at  every  chance.  So 
I  bid  Jemmy  bring  the  little.girrel  with  him. 

"Larry  laughs  and  works,  and  runs  over  to  one 
garden  to  help  the  boys  a  bit,  though  they  bid  him 
keep  off,  and  then  he  digs  among  the  potatoes  for 
Bonny  Betty  ;  but  he's  broke  off  that,  your  honour, 
for  as  soon  as  she  found  it  out  she  went  to  his  gar- 
ding  and  dug  just  as  many  rows  as  he  did.  I'm 
thinking  it  will  be  hard  to  tell  which  of  the  men's 
gardings  will  get  the  premium,  for  they're  jealous 
like,  and  they  all  put  in  the  same  things  and  work 
in  the  same  way  as  near  as  possible,  but  they  scorn 
the  flowers,  your  honour. 

"  David  Conolly  still  drinks,  but  for  very  shame's 
sake  he  works  morning  and  evening,  and  he  would 
get  behind  hand  only  that  that  fine  boy,  his  son, 
just  steps  over  now  and  then  and  keeps  the  garding 
up  to  the  others.  His  wife  tould  me  t'other  day 
that  for  certain  David  does  not  drink  so  much,  and 
she's  certain  he  will  leave  off  in  time,  for  now  on 
Sundays  he  takes  up  a  book  or  lies  in  bed  after 
chapel  hours,  and  this  she  thinks  is  a  good  sign. 
Pat,  the  hoy,  is  another  crater,  your  honour;  his 
master  at  the  factory  is  well  pleased  with  the  change 
in  him,  and  agrees  to  his  only  coming  half  a  day, 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  199 

since  he's  all  the  better  for  it,  and  his  mother  says 
for  the  last  week  he  has  not  had  any  of  those  bad 
night  sweats,  and  he  does  not  talk  in  his  sleep — so 
the  change  of  work  has  done  him  good. 

Sammy  Oram  is  none  the  worse  for  working  out 
of  doors,  and  he's  better  tempered  too,  your  honour, 
for  we  none  of  us  took  much  to  Sammy,  he  was  so 
soured  like,  owing  to  his  sitting  all  day  cobbling 
shoes  and  fretting.  He  thought  at  one  time  of 
making  orphans  of  his  boys  and  getting  them  all  off 
his  hands  in  the  Girard  College,  for  the  kind  gen- 
tlemen there  made  it  out  at  one  time  that  all  childer 
that  had  only  one  parent  was  orphans,  but  our 
priest,  father  M'Guire,  tould  him  that  so  many 
orphans  came  with  their  daddies,  that  the  overseers, 
or  whatever  their  names  may  be,  found  that,  large 
as  the  college  was,  it  would  not  hold  all  the  orphans 
that  the  daddies  brought.  Father  M'Guire  said 
that  the  truth  ought  to  be  tould,  that  very  few 
mothers  took  their  orphans;  they  preferred  to  edi- 
cate  them  themselves. 

"  When  Sammy,  your  honour,  found  there  was 
no  chance  to  get  his  little  boys  off  his  hands  as 
orphans,  he  then  thought  to  fall  in  love  with  Bonny 
Betty,  for  she's  now  well  off  in  the  world,  thanks 
to  your  honour.  So  one  day  last  week  he  stept 
over  the  row  of  currant  bushes,  nimbly  like,  and 
says,  'Mistress  Kelly,'  says  he,  '  you  and  I  have 
wrought  side  by  side  since  the  15th  of  April,  and 
it's  now  June.  I'm  thinking  we  could  work  on  this 
way  to  the  end  of  our  lives,  and  I'll  be  a  good  fader 
to  your  children,  and  keep  you  from  such  hard 
work  as  this,  for  it's  a  shame  to  see  a  fine  woman 
like  yourself,  Mistress  Kelly,  working  like  a  man 
any  how.'  Well,  what  does  Bonny  Betty  do  but 
one  thing,  and  Sammy  Oram  might  be  sure  she'd 
tell;  indeed  we  were  all  in  the  garding  at  the  time, 
and  saw  them  speak  together,  and  we  saw  her  lift 


200 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 


him,  easy  like,  with  one  hand,  by  the  waistband 
behind,  over  the  currant  bushes,  and  set  him  gently 
down  on  the  other  side,  and  then  Betty  she  laughed 
out  loud,  scornful  like.  Sammy  Oram,  after  that, 
had  no  heart  to  work  next  to  Bonny  Betty.  '  And  I 
knew  what  he  corned  next  to  me  for  at  the  time,' 
said  she,  '  but  I  said  I'll  fit  him  when  he's  ready 
to  spake — he  a  fader  to  my  childer — he's  not  a 
fader  to  his  own.  There's  Lizzy  Conolly,  she's  a 
good  enough  body  for  him,  and  he'll  find  her  a 
better  mammy  to  his  childer  than  I  would  be.' 
Sammy's  a  man,  your  honour,  that  soon  tires  of  a 
wife.  I  remember  once  he  tould  me  when  his  first 
wife  had  been  a  long  time  ailen,  that  he  wished  he 
could  get  her  back  to  Ireland  to  her  fader,  he  did 
not  see  why  he  was  obliged  to  take  care  of  another 
man's  child.  But  Sammy's  an  honest  man,  your 
honour,  and  he'll  may  be  do  well  yet.  I  think  the 
hint  of  Lizzy  Conolly  not  a  bad  one,  and  she's 
fond  of  little  childer.  We  are  all  wishing  to  see 
your  honour,  not  forgetting  our  respects  to  Mrs. 
M'Curdy  and  sweet  little  Nory.  I  remain  your 
honour's  humble  and  obedient  servant, 

"Daniel  M'Leary." 

On  the  fourth  of  July  the  four  gates  were  thrown 
open,  and  all  the  village,  rich  and  poor,  went  in, 
for  the  first  time,  to  see  what  the  idle  hours  of  six 
persons  had  accomplished.  The  praises  that  the 
men  and  boys  received,  to  say  nothing  of  Bonny 
Betty,  who  was  there  in  all  her  pride  with  her 
children,  quite  compensated  them  for  any  little 
extra  fatigue  they  had  undergone.  The  boys  and 
girls  were  neatly  dressed,  and  the  poor  women,  the 
wives  of  the  gardeners,  began  to  take  rank  among 
the  better  order  of  labourers,  for  their  husbands 
were  beginning  to  attract  notice.  It  was  con- 
stantly— "  Well,   Jemmy   Brady,  how  does   your 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  201 

garden  come  on  ?  are  you  almost  tired  yet  V 
"  Tired  !  Is  it  I  that  am  tired,  sir,  when  I  and  the 
wife  and  children  had  a  dish  of  potatoes  of  my  own 
raising  larger  nor  any  you  ever  seed  in  our  foolish 
little  market?  Sure  you  have  not  seen  Bonny 
Betty's  stall,  as  they  call  it — only  just  go  over 
to-morrow,  being  Monday,  ye'll  see  a  sight — early 
York  cabbage — ye  see  I've  learned  the  name's  of 
things  since  I  belonged  to  your  garding — and  there's 
real  marrowfat  peas,  and  big  white  ingans,  as  big 
as  a  tay  saucer,  and  ye'll  may  be  hardly  see  the 
end  of  the  beets  and  carrots,  they're  so  long,  and 
then  there's  the  early  turnip  just  fit  to  melt  in  your 
mouth;  sure  we  had  a  mess  of  them  with  our  pork 
and  potatoes  this  blessed  day,  and  how  could  a 
poor  man  like  me,  with  seven  childer,  all  babies 
nearly,  get  the  like  of  turnips  and  white  ingans, 
unless  I  made  them  grow  myself,  barring  I  might 
send  to  York  for  them,  but  poor  people  can't  do 
that." 

Every  one  of  the  shanty  people  took  a  pride  in 
having  vegetables  on  the  table  every  Sunday,  and 
in  a  little  time  Bonny  Betty  did  nothing,  literally, 
but  sell  vegetables;  and  most  scrupulous  was  she 
in  keeping  the  difFei'ent  interests  separate.  Each 
man  and  boy  had  his  basket,  and  every  morning 
they  were  filled  and  carried  to  Betty's  shed,  erected 
for  the  purpose.  No  market  woman  was  ever 
prouder,  and  none  certainly  so  happy,  if  we  make 
allowance  for  the  increased  illness  of  her  youngest 
child.  But  even  this  she  did  not  see,  for  so  great 
a  change  had  taken  place  in  the  circumstances  and 
health  of  all  the  rest,  that  she  went  on,  hoping  that 
in  God's  good  time  little  Christie  would  get  well 
too. 

The  trial  day  came — the  first  of  November.     It 
was  on  Saturday,  and   the  six  candidates  took  a 
holiday,  for   they   could  now    afford   it.     Jemmy 
s 


202  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

Brady  and  Larry  M'Gilpin,  at  one  time  the  worst 
off,  and  the  most  dirty  and  ragged  of  them  all.  were 
now  clean  and  decently  dressed ;  they  were  each 
the  richer  too,  in  having  another  child  added  to 
their  number,  but  they  were  very  much  set  up 
about,  as  Larry  had  the  felicity  of  calling  his  new 
daughter  Sally  M'Curdy — and  never  even  when  in 
a  hurry  did  he  shorten  the  name — and  Jemmy  only 
wished  that  his  boy  had  been  twins,  that  they 
might  both  have  been  called  Oliver  Price. 

Mr.  Price,  Mrs.  M'Curdy  and  Norah  arrived  the 
day  before;  a  wagon  followed  them  loaded  with 
presents,  and  at  ten  o'clock  on  the  day  of  trial  the 
three  went  together  to  the  shanty  of  Bonny  Betty. 
The  gate  was  thrown  open,  and  after  they  had  all 
walked  over  the  grounds  and  had  seen  the  neat 
order  in  which  each  garden  was  prepared  for  the 
winter,  they  went  to  Daniel  M'Leary's  shanty  to 
look  at  his  accounts. 

"  I'm  thinking,"  said  good  natured  Larry,  "  that 
the  boys  will  get  the  premium  any  how,  and  if 
neither  Bonny  Betty  nor  myself  is  to  get  it,  why 
the  master,  God  bless  his  honour,  could  not  do 
better  than  let  the  children  have  it — so  he  stood 
back,  and  in  this  happy  frame  of  mind  waited  the 
awrard  of  his  industry- 

Mr.  Price,  assisted  by  several  gentlemen  of  the 
village,  examined  each  man's  account  as  rendered 
in  by  himself  every  day,  all  fairly  written  out  by 
Jemmy  Brady.  The  result  was  wonderful;  these 
poor  families  had  not  only  a  large  mess  of  vegeta- 
bles of  the  best  kind  for  their  tables  every  Sun- 
day, and  from  twelve  to  fifteen  bushels  of  potatoes 
for  their  winter  use,  but  they  had  cleared — first, 
the  boys  in  the  corner  lot — twenty-one  dollars 
each,  making  sixty-three  dollars.  This  was  after 
paying  Bonny  Betty  a  per  centage  tor  selling  the 
different  vegetables  for  them,  and  Betty  was  not 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  203 

extortionate;  this  yielded  the  boys  about  four  dol- 
lars a  month,  which  with  the  money  they  earned  at 
their  different  employments  enabled  them  to  buy 
themselves  two  good  suits  of  clothes,  pay  their 
parents  for  their  board,  and  put  a  few  dollars  in  the 
savings  fund.  But  I  ought  to  go  on  with  the  other 
gardens. 

Next  to  the  three  boys  came  David  Conolly — he 
looked  so  much  better  in  health  that  Mr.  Price  did 
not  recollect  him — he  produced  his  account ;  he  had 
cleared  fifty  dollars.  "  Well  done,  David,"  said 
Mr.  Price,  "who  could  have  believed  this? — what! 
fifty  dollars,  and  such  good  looks!  I  must  shake 
hands  with  you — and  your  wife,  which  is  she  1  let 
me  wish  her  joy  too."     • 

Poor  Mrs.  Conolly  stepped  forward  with  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  shook  hands  with 
Mr.  Price,  but  her  heart  was  too  full  to  speak, 
though  Bonny  Betty  punched  her  in  the  side  several 
times  and  whispered  to  her  to  hold  up  a  bit. 

David  Conolly,  so  long  despised  as  a  drunken 
vagabond,  had  undergone  something  of  a  change 
in  his  feelings  too.  He  knew  that,  but  for  the  as- 
sistance of  his  good  son,  his  garden  would  have 
been  overrun  with  weeds ;  and  that,  so  often  was 
he  drunk,  in  the  early  part  of  the  SUinnr]g»j  Vviien" 
everv  thing  r^nyired  so  much  care  and  attention, 
that  if  Patrick  had  not  turned  in  and  helped,  he 
would  not  have  held  up  his  head  this  day.  All  this 
came  full  to  his  mind ;  and  he  was  not  slow  in  giv- 
ing his  son  this  praise.  Perhaps,  this  was  the  most 
gratifying  thing  to  Mr.  Price  that  had  occurred. 
Here,  by  the  little  he  had  done,  was  a  poor  crea- 
ture restored  to  a  moral  sensibility,  which  had  be- 
come almost  extinct  in  his  bosom.  Here,  through  his 
means,  was  a  husband  and  a  father  restored  to  the 
respect  of  his  wife  and  child.  "  I  am  satisfied," 
said  Mr.  Price,  inwardly,  "and  I  humbly  thank 


204  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

thee,  oh,  my  God,  for  being  the  means  of  saving 
this  poor  creature." 

Next  came  Larry,  hitching  and  twisting  himself 
into  all  manner  of  shapes — he  had  sixty  dollars — 
for  by  good  luck,  as  he  said,  his  cauliflowers  was 
bigger  nor  David's;  and  a  man  had  given  a  great 
price  for  them,  to  take  to  York  ;  and  he  had  planted 
squashes  in  among  his  potatoes,  so  that  they  took 
up  no  more  room;  and  his  little  datters  had  helped 
him  weed;  "  and  so,  your  honour,"  said  he,  "  you 
see  that  David's  not  behind  me,  any  how,  seeing  he 
has  no  little  datters  to  weed  for  him." 

"  Plase  your  honour,"  said  Bonny  Betty,  whose 
turn  came  next,  "just  pass  me  by  and  let  Jemmy 
Brady  bring  up ;  I'll  be  better  ready,  being  the 
last." 

"Why,  I  thought  that  Sammy  Oram  had  the 
next  lot  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Price,  "  has  Jemmy 
changed  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  said  Jemmy,  walking  proudly  up, 
with  a  decent  smart  dress  on;  and,  in  his  nervous 
anxiety  to  show  himself  to  Mr.  Price,  he  had  his 
hat  on  his  head.  His  wife,  however,  twitched  it 
off',  and  told  him  not  to  forget  where  he  was.  "  But 
he's  scared,  like,  your  honour,"  said  Biddy,  dressed 
up'as"s?-naft'-a^k.r  Jl'isband;  "and  I've  brought 
you  my  little  boy ;  he's  a  new  c6me'iTyr;;,T  hcr^r; 
and  if  your  honour  would  not  be  affronted,  we  in- 
tend to  call  him  Oliver  Price." 

Mr.  Price  patted  the  chubby  little  thing  on  the 
cheek,  and  thanked  the  mother  for  the  compliment, 
saying,  that  when  his  little  namesake  was  old 
enough,  he  should  be  sent  to  school.  Jemmy,  with 
hat  now  in  hand,  brought  his  account— alas,  poor 
Jemmy,  his  account  showed  only  forty  dollars — 
but  eight  children!  "No,  don't  feel  ashamed," 
said  Mr.  Price.  "I  have  heard  that  you  were  often 
obliged  to  remain  at  home  to  nurse  your  wife — but 


THE  SEVEN   SHANTIES.  205 

what's  the  matter,  Bonny  Betty,  why  do  you  look 
so  amazed  ?" 

"  Why,  sure,  your  honour,  Jemmy's  fine  clothes 
have  crazed  him.  I  kept  the  money,  and  sure, 
Jemmy,  there's  more;  sure  you  had  sixty  dollars." 

"  Yes,  you  gave  me  sixty,"  said  honest  Jemmy, 
"but  can't  I  write  and  read,  and  isn't  all  these  bills 
made  out  by  myself?  and  did  I  not  set  down  all 
the  time  I  worked  ?  and  sure  I  am  that  forty  dollars 
is  all  I  earned  any  how.  There's  the  twenty  dollars, 
and  they're  none  of  mine;  but  to  be  shared  wid  my 
two  little  boys — shame  on  me  for  spaking  of  my 
own  first,  and  Bonny  Betty's  little  Ben,  to  say  no- 
thing of  Petey  and  Ody  Oram,  them  two  good  little 
fellows.  When  I  could  not  work,  your  honour, 
they  all  fell  to,  and  my  little  garding  looked  none 
the  worse,  I  ean  tell  you." 

Sammy  Oram  came  next — he  could  not  bear  to 
work  next  to  Betty,  so  good  natured  Jemmy 
changed  with  him  ;  and  Sammy,  after  that,  plucked 
up  heart  a  little,  offered  himself  to  Lizzy  Conolly, 
got  married,  and  really  improved  wonderfully,  for 
Lizzy  was  cheerful,  and  his  children  became  very 
fond  of  her.     He  had  forty  dollars  likewise. 

"  And  now,  your  honour,  here's  my  earnings, 
your  honour,"  said  Bonny  Betty,  stepping  forward 
with  five  healthy  children  at  her  side — poor  little 
Christie  having  died  about  two  weeks  before.  "Here 
is  my  money,"  and  she  opened  a  little  box,  count- 
ing out  one  hundred  and  ten  dollars,  all  in  silver. 

"I'm  thankful"  said  Larry,  "that  she'll  get  the 
premium,  any  how.*'  '-\.>,  I've  not  earned  all  this 
money  by  my  garden,"  said  honest  Betty,  "  but  by 
selling  for  the  rest — I  had  that  chance  over  ye  all. 
If  I  could  rightly  tell  how  much  I  made  by  selling 
for  you.  you'd  find  1  may  be  would  be  a  great  deal 
behind  you  all." 

"  1  see,  my  friends,"  said  Mr.  Trice,  "that  it  is 
s2 


206  THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES. 

difficult  to  tell  which  has  made  the  most.  I  shall 
not  give  the  premium  to  any  one  in  particular. 
You  have  all  done  well.  David  Conolly  is,  certain- 
ly, most  to  be  praised,  because  he  has  broken  him- 
self of  an  accursed  vice." — "I'll  never  drink  a 
drop,  your  honour,  from  this  hour,"  said  David — 
"  The  boys,"  continued  Mr.  Price — "  but  I  dare  not 
trust  myself  to  speak  of  them — the  gentlemen  pre- 
sent will  take  care  that  they  shall  always  have  the 
best  wages  and  the  best  places  in  their  gift;  they 
deserve  it  well ;  and,  as  I  thought  they  would  be- 
have exactly  as  they  have  done,  I  have  brought 
them  each  something  suited  to  their  present  wants. 
As  to  you,  Bonny  Betty — seeing  tlfat  you  are  a 
woman,  by  rights  I  ought  to  distinguish  you  beyond 
the  others.  You  shall  have  your  shanty  and  lot  rent 
free ;  the  rest  shall  pay  into  the  hands  of  Daniel 
M'Leary  ten  dollars  each,*for  the  next  year.  I 
shall  charge  them  nothing  now.  The  gardens  will 
be  better,  as  the  raspberries  and  strawberries  will 
be  ready  for  sale;  and  the  year  after,  the  aspara- 
gus will  be  large  enough  to  cut.  I  shall  then  build 
a  small  markethouse,  and  place  Mr.  M'Leary  at  the 
head  of  it.  Make  way  there,  Larry,  and  let  the 
packages  from  the  wagon  be  brought  in." 

Mr.  Price  gave  every  one  a  parcel,  containing  a 
number  of  things  necessary  to  the  coming  winter; 
such  as  blankets,  coarse  cloth  for  the  children, 
stockings,  and  stuff  for  cloaks  and  coats — besides 
sewing  cotton,  pins,  tape,  needles,  scissors ;  and  for 
the  boys  plenty  of  paper,  pencils,  books  and  car- 
penter's tools — the  men  could  hardly  stagger  home 
under  their  pleasant  loads;  and  the  women  went 
trotting  along  by  their  side,  laughing  and  talking 
loud  in  the  joy  of  their  hearts.  Mr.  Price  did  not 
stay  for  their  thanks,  which,  after  the  Irish  fashion, 
they  were  pouring  out  feelingly  and  rapidly.  All 
he  heard,  as  he  jumped  in  the  dearborn,  with  the 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  207 

gentleman  who  owned  the  land,  was  the  end  of 
Jemmy  Brady's  outpouring — "  God  bless  him  ;  if 
his  son  had  lived,  he'd,  may  be,  in  time  have  been 
as  good  a  man  as  himself."  Mr.  Price  was  very 
much  affected  ;  slopped  with  the  intention  of  speak- 
ing to  the  man,  but  feeling  unable,  he  rode  away. 

"Norah,  dear,"  said  he,  in  the  evening  of  this 
busy  day, — "Norah,  you  have  done  being  afraid  of 
me,  have  you  not?  You  may  remember  how  un- 
willing you  were  to  come  near  me  when  I  first  saw 
you." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  girl,  "  I  was  afraid  of  you 
then,  but  it  was  not  long.  It  was  only  something 
that  Jemmy  Brady  said  to  me  in  the  "kitchen  that 
made  me  not  like  you  at  first;  but  I  love  you  dearly 
now,"  said  she,  as  she  jumped  on  his  lap  and  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"  I  wanted  you  then  to  tell  me  what  Jemmy  said 
to  make  you  fear  me,  but  you  would  not.  You  will 
tell  me  now,  will  you  not?"  and  he  pressed  the 
little  creature  fondly  to  his  bosom. 

"Why, Jemmy  said  you  were  the  image  of  my 
father ;  and  that  if  he  chose,  he  could  make  my  dear 
grandmother  very  unhappy;  but  that  he  would  not 
tell — he  liked  me  too  well  to  let  any  one  separate 
me  from  him.  80  I  was  afraid,  and  yet  I  did  not 
know  why  you  would  take  me  from  my  dear  grand- 
mother; for  that  was  what  I  thought  Jemmy 
meant." 

Mr.  Price  sent  her  to  call  Jemmy.  When  ques- 
tioned, he  said  he  firmly  believed  that  Mr.  Price's 
son  was  Norah's  father:  that  he  lived  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, very  near  to  Sally  M'Curdy;  that  the 
young  man,  who  called  himself  White,  fell  in  love 
with  Ellinora  M'Curdy.  who  was  a  beautiful  girl, 
bm  too  virtuous  to  listen  to  any  one  excepting  in 
the  way  of  marriage — that  he  finally  did  marry 
her,  but  under  the  name  of  White.     After  a  few 


208  THE  SEVEN   SHANTIES. 

months,  he  came  to  America,  where  he  married 
again,  and  this  was  the  last  they  ever  heard  of  htm. 
Jemmy  Brady  went  on  to  observe  that  he  came  to 
this  country  about  a  year  after  Mrs.  M'Curdy,  and 
heard  from  them  that  Mr.  White  had  married 
again,  and  that  they  had  made  up  their  minds  never 
to  molest  him,  fearing  that  the  little  girl  would  be 
taken  from  them.  He  had  seen  the  likeness  be- 
tween Mr.  Price  and  the  young  man  who  called 
himself  White,  and  he  said  aloud — but  not  in  the 
hearing  of  Mrs.  M'Curdy — that  the  likeness  was 
very  strong;  but  he  did  not  think,  at  the  time,  the 
little  girl  minded  it. 

On  further  inquiry,  and  on  recollecting  what  his 
son  had  said  in  his  last  moments,  owning  that  he 
had  left  a  wife,  and,  he  believed,  a  child,  in  Ireland, 
Mr.  Price  had  no  doubt  that  little  Norah  was  his 
grandchild.  A  book,  with  a  few  lines  in  the  title 
page,  which  Mrs.  M'Curdy  had  preserved,  recog- 
nized as  his  own,  given  to  his  son  before  he  sailed, 
more  fully  proved  it;  but  he  could  hardly  be  said 
to  love  the  child  more  after  this  disclosure.  He 
immediately  acknowledged  her;  and  glad  was  he 
that  his  unhappy  son  had  left  no  children  by  this 
second  marriage.  Of  course,  Mrs.  M'Curdy  re- 
turned no  more  to  the  shanty.  She  lived  with  Mr. 
Price,  and  had  but  one  regret — that  her  poor 
daughter  had  not  lived  to  share  their  happiness. 
Both  she  and  Norah  went  yearly  to  visit  the  grave 
under  the  old  hemlock  tree. 

Here  was  an  unlooked-for  reward  for  his  kind- 
ness to  a  hapless  family ;  but  as  every  man  who 
does  good  is  not  to  expect  a  grandchild  to  start  up 
in  his  walk,  he  must  look  to  other  sources  for  com- 
pensation. Mr.  Price  had  these  likewise  ;  for  the 
shanty  people  never  relapsed  into  idleness  and  dirt ; 
but  continued  to  improve  in  their  circumstances. 
At  the  end  of  ten  years,   (and  they  passed  quickly 


THE  SEVEN  SHANTIES.  209 

away,)  every  man  was  able  to  buy  the  lot  of  ground 
on  which  he  had  so  long  wrought.  The  owner  sold 
them  at  a  moderate  price;  but  he  more  than  made 
up  for  this  small  advance  by  the  greater  prices  ob- 
tained for  the  rest  of  the  land  which  he  owned  in 
the  neighbourhood. 

In  consequence  of  the  success  of  this  scheme 
other  landholders  adopted  the  same  wise  policy, 
and  the  benefit  to  their  property  was  immense. 
The  love  of  horticulture  opened  the  way  to  better 
habits  and  tastes  among  the  poor  of  the  district; 
and  there  was  none  so  humble  that  had  not  a  gar- 
den spot  of  their  own.  The  ladies'  societies  fled 
from  them  for  ever ;  and  the  poor  women  blessed 
the  day  of  their  departure,  for  now  they  could  earn 
an  honest  living  by  their  needle. 

During  the  ten  years  of  which  we  speak,  other 
changes  had  taken  place,  greatly  beneficial  to  the 
village.  A  pier  had  been  built  by  a  company  from 
New  York,  and  steamboats  now  plied  there  daily. 
In  compliment  to  Mr.  Price  they  intended  to  call 
the  first  one  that  was  built  for  the  place,  "  Oliver 
Price,"  but  that  gentleman  declined  the  honour  for 
the  present ;  he  said,  if  they  had  no  objection,  he 
would  give  them  a  more  suitable  name — "  The 
Seven  Shanties" — and  that  if  they  ever  built  ano- 
ther, of  which  there  was  no  doubt,  he  wished  it 
might  be  called  the  "  Bonny  Betty." 

They  did  build  another,  and  another;  and  at  this 
moment  there  are  no  less  than  five  for  the  trade 
and  pleasure  of  that  place  alone. — The  Seve?i  Shan- 
ties—  The  Bonny  Betty — The  Little  JVorah — The 
Henry  Barclay,  and  the . 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 


"  I  wish  my  dear  Hassy,"  said  Mrs.  Webb  to  her 
husband,  "  I  do  really  wish  that  we  had  a  house  of 
our  own ;  I  dislike  to  live  at  lodgings,  it  leaves  me 
so  little  to  do.  When  my  baby  is  dressed  and  your 
bureau  is  put  in  order,  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
sew,  no  exercise  at  all ;  and  as  to  you,  you  read, 
read  until  you  lose  your  colour  and  health.  Now, 
if  we  had  a  house  to  ourselves,  you  would  have  ex- 
ercise enough  in  going  to  market — (Heavens,  Mr. 
Webb  go  to  market ! !) — and  in  one  little  odd  notion 
or  other;  and  as  to  me,  I  should  be  as  busy  as  a 
bee,  and  would  scarcely  have  time  to  sit  down  from 
morning  till  night." 

"  My  dear  Winny,"  said  l\er  husband,  "  I  detest 
this  mode  of  life  as  much  as  you  can  do,  I  am  even 
more  anxious  to  leave  these  lodgings  than  you  are 
- — and — I  have  several  times  lately  been  going  to 
mention  the  subject  to  you.  I  have  weighed  it  over 
and  over  in  my  own  mind  for  a  long  time,  and  if 
you  have  no  material  objection — (Here  Mr.  Webb 
refrained  from  looking  at  his  wife) — I  should  prefer, 
when  we  do  move,  to  live  in  the  country." 

Now,  this  was  precisely  what  Mrs.  Webb  dis- 
liked; she  had  for  some  time  been  dreading  that  her 
husband  would  make  a  proposal  of  this  kind,  and 
she  had  fortified  herself  well  to  meet  it.     She,  too, 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  211 

as  she  thought,  had  weighed  the  affair  well,  and  all 
things  being  considered,  her  decision  was,  that  there 
was  more  real  comfort  for  man,  woman  and  child, 
in  the  city  than  in  the  country.  "  When  one  comes 
to  speak  of  horses,  cows  and  dogs,"  said  she  one 
day  to  a  friend,  "  why  then  the  case  is  altered. 
Keeping  a  horse  at  livery  is  an  expensive  thing,  as 
Mr.  Webb  finds  to  his  cost,  and  milk  from  cows 
which  are  fed  about  a  stable  yard,  is  unfit  to  drink. 
Dogs  to  be  sure,  nine  cases  in  ten,  are  useless  and 
worthless  animals,  in  any  place ;  but  they  lead  a  life 
of  misery  in  the  city,  kicked  and  cuffed  and  half 
starved  as  they  always  are.  If  dogs  must  be  kept, 
the  country  is  the  best  place  for  them  too."  ' 

Mr.  Ahasuerus  Webb  was  a  gentleman  born  and 
bred ;  the  peculiar  cast  of  his  mind  led  him  to  study 
theology,  and  but  for  his  timidity,  for  he  distrusted 
his  own  powers,  he  would  have  destined  himself  to 
the  church.  His  friends,  however,  thought  there 
wrs  a  much  stronger  objection  to  his  taking  orders 
than  what  arose  from  timidity  or  the  absence  of 
powerful  talent.  Mr.  Webb  was  one  of  the  most 
diminutive  of  men — almost  a  dwarf. — Butwas  there 
ever  a  small  man  who  felt  conscious  that  he  was 
unable  to  achieve  actions  which  belonged  exclu- 
sively to  those  possessing  superior  stature  and 
strength  'I 

Year  after  year,  however,  passed  awray  in  irreso- 
lution on  his  part  in  choosing  an  occupation  which 
might  increase  his  income.  He  had  no  employ- 
ments but  such  as  were  the  result  of  reading;  and 
his  friends  at  length  ceased  to  urge  him  to  exertion, 
as  there  seemed  every  probability  that  he  would 
always  remain  single,  having  then  attained  his 
twenty-eighth  year. 

But  Mr.  Webb  at  last  fell  in  love  and  married; 
and  the  lady  that  he  selected,  independently  of  the 
obligation  which  his  marriage  vows  laid  him  under, 


212  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

of  loving  her  with  the  greatest  tenderness,  was  enti- 
tled to  his  utmost  sympathy  from  another  cause — she 
was  even  of  smaller  stature  than  himself.  She  suited 
him  therefore,  in  every  particular  but  two,  which  at 
the  time  of  courtship  seemed  no  difference  at  all; 
but  which,  now  that  they  had  been  man  and  wife 
for  two  years,  seemed  likely  to  result  in  a  very  un- 
comfortable state  of  things.  Mrs.  Webb  hated, 
books,  and  she  detested  the  thoughts  of  living  in  the 
country;  on  the  contrary,  Mr.  Webb  was  a  great 
reader,  and  was  passionately  fond  of  the  country, 
and  of  rural  occupations. 

"  You  fire  not  very  partial  to  the  country,  my 
dear  Winny,"  said  he,  venturing  to  cast  a  look  at 
his  wife,  whose  tiny  fingers  were  plying  like  light- 
ning over  her  work,  while  her  cheeks  were  flushed 
with  agitation.  "  but  if  you  will  give  up  this  small 
point." 

"  Small  point,  Mr.  Webb,  do  you  call  that  a  small 
point  which  is  so  very  disagreeable  to  me?  Nay," 
said  she,  laughing,  "  if  it  be  such  a  small  point,  why 
contend  about  it;  do  you  concede  this  small  point  to 
me,  and  when  it  comes  to  one  that  you  consider  of 
greater  magnitude,  why — exert  your  prerogative 
my  dear." 

Mr.  Webb  looked  grave  and  sighed ;  the  little 
lady,  although  very  fond  of  her  husband,  was  not 
disposed  to  yield,  much  as  her  husband's  sighs  and 
grave  looks  affected  her.  She  continued  to  sew 
very  fast,  without  looking  up  for  some  time.  At 
length,  finding  that  his  eyes  were  again  dropped  on 
his  book,  and  that  he  had  resumed  his  tranquil  man- 
ner, she  called  his  attention  to  the  offer  of  a  com- 
promise. "  Suppose  my  dear  Hassy,  that  we  both 
give  up  a  little?  Do  you  give  up  this  small  point  of 
living  in  the  country,  and  I  will  live  as  frugally  as  I 
can  in  ever  so  small  a  house  in  the  city,  that  you 
may  j^urchase  books  and  keep  the    horse — and — 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  213 

and — now  my  dear  Hassy,"  said  she,  drawing  her 
chair  nearer  to  her  husband  and  looking  up  to  his 
face — "  think  of  the  very  great  point  I  am  going  to 
give  up  for  your  small  one — you  shall  have  the 
naming  of  our  little  girl !" 

This  was  indeed  a  temptation,  for  Mr.  Webb 
was  of  a  romantic  turn  of  mind,  and  considered  a 
good  name  as  a  thing  of  vital  importance.  His 
own  name,  Ahasuerus,  had  been  a  source  of  much 
mortification  to  him  ;  and  that  of  his  wife,  Wini- 
fred, was  equally  inharmonious  and  distasteful.  But 
Mrs.  Webb  had  no  romance  about  her;  she  called 
her  husband's  horse  Mush,  because  the  animal  hap- 
pened one  day  to  run  his  nose  into  a  dishful  of  that 
article  ;  and  a  fine  handsome  little  terrier  she  called 
Scratch,  although  her  husband  had  named  the  one 
Orelio  and  the  other  Bevis. 

As  to  her  own  name,  or  that  of  her  husband, 
she  saw  nothing  disagreeable  in  either  of  them  ; 
and  could  she  have  followed  her  own  inclinations 
she  would  have  called  her  little  girl  Rachel.  But, 
although  thus  indifferent  about  names,  which  in  ge- 
neral were  thought  old  fashioned — such  as  Marga- 
ret, Magdalen,  Sarah  and  the  like,  yet  she  had  an 
active  dislike  to  fanciful  ones;-  Emily,  Caroline  and 
Matilda,  had  nothing  notable  or  thrifty  in  their  cha- 
racter; they  were  novel  names,  and  she  hated 
novels.  Still  less  did  she  like  those  of  Myrtilla, 
Flora,  Narcissa ;  they  savoured  too  much  of  the 
country;  she  dreaded  her  husband's  tasteseither  way. 

If  romances  were  uppermost  at  the  time,  then 
the  first  mentioned  names  would  be  present  to  his 
imagination;  and  if  her  child  were  so  unfortunate 
as  to  get  one  of  them,  it  might  be  the  means  of 
fastening  a  lackadaysical  character  on  her  for  life; 
she  would  never  be  fit  for  any  rational  employment. 

If,  on  the  contrary,  her  husband  had  the  country 
mania  on  him,  then  what  could  she  hope  for  but  a 

T 


214  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

Pastorella  or  a  Daphne?  What  a  milk  and  water 
creature  would  this  make  of  her  child !  For  Mrs. 
Webb,  too,  in  her  way,  was  of  opinion  that  pecu- 
liar names  gave  a  peculiar  turn  to  character.  In 
either  case,  therefore,  she  was  in  a  dilemma,  and 
the  baby,  now  three  months  old,  had  no  name. 

Mr.  Webb  laid  down  his  book  at  this  unlooked- 
for  offer  of  a  compromise,  and  was  about  to  enter 
into  a  discussion  concerning  it,  when  a  servant  an- 
nounced a  visiter.  An  elderly  gentleman  entered, 
at  whose  appearance  Mrs.  Webb  started  up  in  great 
dismay  and  confusion.  She  hastily,  and  in  much 
trepidation,  introduced  the  stranger  as  her  uncle, 
Mr.  Banks,  her  mother's  only  brother. 

Mr.  Banks,  a  rich  planter,  had  just  arrived  from 
Jamaica,  where  his  principal  estates  lay.  He  had 
never  seen  Mr.  Webb;  and  had  now  come  to  pay 
his  first  visit.  As  Mrs.  Webb  was  the  only  child  of 
his  only  sister,  the  old  gentleman,  in  his  way,  had 
been  very  fond  of  her;  yet,  in  spite  of  this,  and  of 
his  real  goodness  of  heart,  he  could  never  see  his 
niece  without  laughing  at  her  tiny  little  figure  ;  and 
she  was  always  called  by  him,  "  the  Little  Fairy." 
His  only  hope  was,  that  she  would  either  not  marry 
at  all,  or  else  choose  a  husband  of  ordinary  size, 
that  their  offspring  might  have  a  chance  of  looking 
as  if  they  had  not  come  from  fairy  land.  He  had 
hardly  got  over  the  mirth  of  his  niece's  marriage, 
when  he  learned  that  her  husband  was  as  diminu- 
tive as  herself;  and  his  impatience  to  see  them  to- 
gether overcame  his  discretion.  Afler  making  a 
few  purchases,  as  presents  to  the  little  couple,  he 
posted  immediately  to  their  lodgings. 

"  And  so  Winny,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  after 
he  had  kissed  his  niece,  and  had  shaken  hands  with 
her  husband,  (without  looking  at  him  though)  "  so, 
this  is  your — husband,  and  you  have  a  baby  too, 
they  say  ;  where  is  it  ?  cannot  I  see  it?  what  is  its 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  215 

name?  tell  the  servant  to  bring  it  in."  He  could 
hardly  restrain  his  impatience,  so  much  did  he  want 
to  see  the  child  of  this  diminutive  couple ;  and 
when  the  maid  brought  it  in,  dressed  in  its  very 
best;  its  little  cap,  with  pink  bows;  its  little  sleeves, 
looped  up  with  pink  ribands;  and  its  pretty  little 
frock,  all  stiff  with  delicate  needle-work,  he  was  in 
an  ecstasy  of  delight.  He  snatched  the  child  from 
the  maid,  and  holding  it  from  him,  at  arm's  length, 
he  laughed  so  loud  and  long  that  the  poor  child 
screamed  with  fright. 

He  then  drew  the  innocent,  terrified  little  crea- 
ture close  to  him  to  take  a  nearer  look  ;  but  no 
sooner  had  he  examined  its  little  features,  and  had 
poised  it  in  his  arms,  to  ascertain  its  weight,  than 
his  laughter  was  renewed  with  redoubled  energy; 
and  so  little  command  had  he  over  himself,  that  if 
Mr.  Webb,  angrily  enough,  had  not  taken  the  child 
from  him,  it  must  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 

There  seemed  no  end  to  the  old  gentleman's 
mirth,  when  Mrs.  Webb,  unable  to  contain  herself 
any  longer,  indignantly  exclaimed — "  Uncle  Banks, 
I  wonder  at  your  coming  here  to  insult  us  in  this 
manner !  What  can  make  you  act  in  this  strange 
unnatural  way?  You  have  hurt  my  husband's 
feelings;  which,  I  can  tell  you,  is  more  painful  to 
me  than  if  you  had  insulted  me  alone." 

When  the  old  gentleman  could  stop  himself,  he 
held  out  his  arms  as  if  he  still  held  the  child — 
"Here,  Winny,"  said  he,  the  tears  of  laughter 
running  down  his  cheeks — "  here,  take  the  baby ; 
whv  don't  you  take  the  child,  I  say?  I  shall  cer- 
tainly let  it  fall." 

"  Uncle  Banks,  if  you  would  only  come  to  your 
senses,  you  would  know  that" — 

"  Hold  your  peace,  Winny,  and  take  the  doll — 
the  baby  I  mean." 

"  You  know  well  enough,  uncle,  that  Mr.  Webb 


216  THE  LITTLE  COLTLE. 

took  the  child  from  you  and  left  the  room.    I  could 
see  that  he  was  exceedingly  hurt  at" — 

"What?"  said  the  obdurate  man — "what,  did 
he  actually  take  away  the  baby,  and  I  not  miss  it 
nor  him  either?  Winny,  I  thought  it  was  light, 
but  I  did  not  dream  it  was  so  feathery  that  I  could 
not  tell  whether  I  held  it  or  not — why  I  should 
have  missed  a  down  pincushion." 

Mrs.  Webb  burst  into  tears.  This  sobered  the 
old  man  at  once.  "  My  dear  Winny,"  said  he,  go- 
ing suddenly  to  her,  and  kissing  her  cheek,  "  how 
foolish  it  is  in  you  to  mind  what  your  old  uncle 
says  or  does  in  his  fun.  Come,  deary,  do  not  cry 
any  more,  but  save  your  eyes  to  look  at  the  pretty 
things  I  have  brought  you.  Here,  girl,"  calling  to 
a  servant,  "  tell  those  men  to  bring  in  that  trunk." 

A  large  trunk  was  brought  in,  which  he  hastened 
to  open ;  and  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of  one  so 
constituted  as  Mrs.  Webb,  to  remain  insensible  to 
the  pleasure  of  examining  such  presents  as  her 
uncle  had  placed  before  her.  She  forgot  her  vex- 
ation, and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  delight  as  the  old 
gentleman,  with  much  ostentatious  parade,  drew 
out  each  valuable  article.  When  he  had,  in  this 
way,  emptied  the  trunk,  he  asked  her  if  she  had 
forgiven  him  for  his  laughter. 

"  Indeed,  uncle  Banks,"  said  she,  "  I  am  so  used 
to  your  humour,  that  if  I  alone  were  concerned,  I 
should  not  mind  it ;  but  Mr.  Webb  feels  such  things 
keenly,  for  he  has  a  great  deal  of  sensibility.  I  am 
sure,  however,  that  he  will  be  delighted  with  the 
books — how  elegantly  they  are  bound — and  he  will 
be  more  than  pleased  with  this  beautiful  tea  set  of 
silver.  What  a  great  help  this  is  to  our  housekeep- 
ing ;  and  all  these  spoons  too,  and  silver  forks — 
Mr.  Webb  has  a  great  fondness  for  silver  plate.  I 
must  call  him  in  to  thank  you." 

"No  don't,  Winny,  don't,"  said  her  uncle,  "I 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  217 

shall  relapse,  for  I  can  hardly  help  going  at  it  fresh 
again  when  I  think  of  his  tiny,  slender  little  figure. 
Why  don't  you  send  him  in  the  country,  to  get  a 
little  flesh  on  his  little  bones?" 

Mrs.  Webb  reddened,  but  a  look  at  the  presents, 
as  they  lay  on  the  floor,  kept  her  from  replying  ; 
and  finding  him  tolerably  grave,  she  thought  it  bet- 
ter for  her  husband  to  get  accustomed  to  the  coarse 
ways  of  her  uncle  at  once.  She,  therefor^j^teejit 
to  him  to  prepare  the  way  for  a  better  understand- 
ing. Mr.  Webb,  however,  felt  no  willingness  to 
be  under  obligations  to  so  vulgar  a  mind ;  but  see- 
ing his  wife's  distress,  in  consequence  of  his  refusal 
to  go  into  the  room,  and  having,  likewise,  a  point 
to  gain  with  her,  he  at  length  resolved  to  bear  with 
the  folly  of  the  old  man,  without  showing  his  sense 
of  the  indignity. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  made  his  appear- 
ance. Meantime  Mrs.  Webb  had  been  coaxing  her 
uncle  to  behave  with  decency  before  her  husband. 
"You  can  but  turn  your  back,"  said  she,  "if  you 
think  you  cannot  refrain  from  laughing;  but  if  you 
knew  how  kind  he  is  to  me,  and  how  much  every 
body  respects  him,  you  would  not  mind  his  size. 
You  have  no  idea  what  an  excellent  scholar  he  is. 
It  is  really  cruel,  my  dear  uncle,  to  make  game  of 
what,  by  your  mirth,  you  consider  as  a  ludicrous 
affliction — a  thing  which  we  neither  of  us  have 
been  instrumental  in  doing;  and  which  we  would 
alter  if  we  could.  Do,  dear  sir,  let  him  see  what 
you  really  are — a  kind  and  affectionate  man.  I  will 
give  my  husband  a  chair  the  moment  he  comes  in; 
he  does  not  look  so  small  when  he  sits." 

This  last  unlucky  observation  undid  all  that  her 
previous  conversation  had  effected;  and  when  Mr. 
Webb  entered,  the  old  man  was  in  a  roar  of  laugh- 
ter; and  only  one  glance  at  the  unfortunate  man, 
t  2 


218  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

as  he  came  into  the  room,  increased  it  to  such  a 
degree,  that  he  fairly  rolled  over  the  floor. 

In  fact,  a  person  of  even  more  refinement,  would 
have  had  his  risible  faculties  excited  at  the  appear- 
ance which  Mr.  Webb  made.  Conscious  of  his 
inferior  size,  and  being  now,  for  the  first  time, 
coarsely  treated  in  consequence  of  it,  he  had  taken 
some  pains  to  improve  his  figure.  He  had  on  a 
long  skirted  coat  and  high  heeled  boots,  with  a  hat 
of  an  uncommonly  high  crown.  His  walk,  as  he 
entered,  was  constrained,  and  his  manner  was  for- 
mal. He  was  exceedingly  provoked  at  the  old 
gentleman's  mirth;  and  nothing  less  than  his  wife's 
distress  could  have  induced  him  to  remain  one  mo- 
ment in  the  room.  But  he  did  stay,  and  he  even 
helped  the  silly  old  man  to  rise,  who,  through  sheer 
weakness,  was  unable  to  move  from  the  floor. 

When  he  had,  in  some  measure,  composed  his 
features,  he  beckoned  to  his  niece,  who  stood  look- 
ing very  angrily  at  him  ;  and,  as  she  came  near,  he 
mustered  up  resolution  enough  to  restrain  himself 
so  that  he  could  articulate.  He  whispered  in  her 
ear,  in  a  sort  of  hoarse  giggle — "  My  dear  Winny — 
take  off  his  hat,  and  get  between  us,  while  you  coax 
him  to  look  at  the  things  on  the  floor — the  boots  I 
do  not  mind — make  him  sit,  Winny,  will  you? — 
and  then  I  shall  not  see  his  coat." 

Mrs.  Webb  could  not,  at  length,  help  laughing 
herself;  so  she  twitched  off  the  unfortunate  hat, 
got  a  chair  for  her  husband,  and,  after  putting  a 
pile  of  books  in  his  lap,  she  endeavoured  to  screen 
him  from  her  uncle's  view.  In  this  way  they  all 
sat  for  a  few  minutes;  the  old  gentleman  in  a  sort 
of  convulsive  titter,  which  he  tried  to  disguise  by 
keeping  a  handkerchief  close  to  his  mouth.  Mrs. 
Webb  was  then  compelled  to  leave  the  room  on 
account  of  the  poor  little  child,  who  could  not  re- 
cover from  its  fright ;  but,  as  she  was  going  out,  she 


THE  LITTLE  COLTLE.  219 

whispered  to  her  husband  not  to  mind  her  uncle. 
"Laugh  with  him,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "it  is  the 
only  way  to  stop  him ;  but,  above  all,  look  at  the 
beautiful  silver,  and  do  not  let  his  folly  vex  you.  I 
will  be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 

Mr.  Banks  behaved  much  better  after  his  niece 
left  the  room ;  and  he  even  trusted  his  voice  in 
making  an  apology.  By  degrees,  poor  Mr.  Webb 
was  appeased  ;  and,  in  looking  at  his  dress,  he  could 
not  but  acknowledge  that  he  cut  an  exceedingly 
grotesque  figure.  He  was,  therefore,  soon  disposed 
to  bear  with  the  oddity  of  his  relation  ;  and,  in  fact, 
to  join  in  his  mirth,  when  the  old  gentleman  put  on 
his  high  crowned  hat,  by  mistake,  for  his  own. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "  that  hat,  I  must  confess, 
is  rather  of  the  tallest,  and  I  can  join  you  in  your 
laugh.  You  may  laugh  at  my  slight,  small  figure, 
and  I  will  laugh  at  your  robust  one,  and  your  red 
face,  for  one  is  as  fit  a  subject  for  mirth  as  the 
other." 

"  You  are  very  much  mistaken,"  said  the  old. 
gentleman,  rousing  himself  suddenly.  "  You  can 
see  nothing  at  all  to  laugh  at  in  me;  for  I  am  made 
like  most  people — and — besides — I  allow  no  man 
to  laugh  at  me.  This  reminds  me,  Mr.  Webb,  of 
the  golden  rule — I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  mirth  ; 
but,  really?  the  hat  and  coat,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
boots,  were  too  much  for  me.  But,  my  little  man 
— hem — Mr.  Webb,  I  mean,  why  do  you  not  go 
into  the  country  and  gather  a  little  colour  and  flesh? 
You  would  look  more  like  a — hem — you  would 
look  as  well  again.  Little  Winny  and  the  little — 
doll — babv — would  be  the  better  for  country  air 
too." 

Mr.  Webb,  thoroughly  good  tempered,  had  long 
since  smiled  off  his  chagrin,  for  he  had  a  splendid 
edition  of  Shakspeare  on  his  lap;  and  he  could  not 
but  think  that  the  hint  of  the  country  might  be  of 


220  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

use  to  him.  He  thought  there  was  a  possibility  of 
drawing  Mr.  Banks  over  to  his  scheme  of  living 
there;  he,  therefore,  hastily  explained  his  reasons 
for  being  in  town ;  and  spoke  of  his  regrets  at  not 
being  able  to  live  in  the  country,  both  on  his  child's 
account  and  his  own.  He  finished  by  stating  his 
wife's  strong  aversion  to  the  plan,  and  of  the  im- 
possibility of  her  ever  consenting  to  it. 

"  What  income  have  you,  my  little— hem — Mr. 
Webb,  I  mean." 

"Why,  sir,  we  have  about  six  hundred  dollars  a 
year.  Now  I  think  that  sum,  with  my  wife's  eco- 
nomy— and  I  have  no  expensive  habits" — 

"  No,  I'll  be  sworn  that  your  clothes  won't  cost 
you  much — nay,"  said  he,  on  seeing  the  colour  fly 
into  Mr.  Webb's  face,  "  let  me  have  my  joke,  and 
I'll  make  you  amends.  In  the  first  place,  I  will 
manage  your  wife,  so  that  she  shall  come  into  your 
plans.  Winny  always  liked  to  have  her  own  way; 
and,  as  I  helped  to  spoil  her,  when  young,  it  is  but 
fair  that  I  should  endeavour  to  set  things  a  little 
square  now.  And,  to  repay  you  for  bearing  so 
well  with  an  old  man's  humour — which,  consider- 
ing how  little  there  is  of  you — nay,  my  boy — Mr. 
Webb,  I  mean,  don't  look  so  angry;  I  was  only 
going  to  observe,  that  I  might  as  well  give  you,  in 
my  lifetime,  what  I  should  certainly  leave  you  at 
my  death.  I  mean  a  little  estate  I  have,  called  Oak 
Valley.  It  is  just  the  very  thing  for  two  such  little 
— I  mean  two  such  agreeable  young  people." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness, 
sir,  but  it  will  be  a  useless  present;  you  forget  your 
niece  has  a  strong  aversion  to  the  country." 

"  What,  Winny  1  Have  I  not  told  you  to  let  me 
manage  her;  hush,  there  she  comes.  I  hope  she  has 
left  the  little  doll — baby  I  mean — behind;  two  I  can 
stand,  now  that  I  am  used  to  it,  but  a  third  would 
set  me  going  again.     Well,  Winny,  your  husband 


THK  LITTLE  COUPLE.  221 

is  not  so  much  vexed  at  my  laughter  as  you  are.  I 
think  him  a  good,  pleasant  tempered  little — fellow. 
In  short,  Winny,  I  begin  to  like  him,  he  bears  a 
joke  so  well.  Now,  a  joke  to  me  is  a  great  thing ; 
and  I  shall  be  tempted,  now  that  1  find  you  in  the 
city,  to  remain  here  a  year  or  two,  and  pitch  my 
tent  near  you.  If  you  lived  in  the  country  I  should 
not  be  able  to  enjoy  your  society,  as  I  never  go 
there.  But  here,  in  the  city,  I  could  see  you  very 
often ;  and  I  know  two  or  three  old  fellows  like 
myself,  who  would  often  come  with  me  to  pay  you 
an  evening  visit.  You  will  soon  get  used  to  my 
jokes,  eh,  Mr.  Webb.  You  will  not  mind  my  laugh- 
ing, Winny,  when  it  comes  to  be  a  daily  thing? 

Mrs.  Webb  was  struck  dumb.  What !  to  under- 
go the  same  torture  daily?  To  see  her  sensitive 
husband  daily,  hourly,  exposed  to  such  coarse 
insults  as  he  had  been  obliged  to  submit  to  during 
this  day? — and  before  strangers  too,  to  be  the  butt 
of  vulgar  and  unfeeling  people? — It  was  too  much — 
nothing  on  earth  could  compensate  for  such  an 
evil.  She  cast  her  eye  towards  her  husband,  not 
doubting  but  that  he  was  feeling  precisely  as  she 
did  ;  but  his  back  was  towards  her,  and  she  could 
not  learn  how  this  communication  affected  him.  It 
would  not  do — that  she  knew  at  once;  she  saw 
nothing  but  misery  in  having  her  uncle  near  them, 
and  she  therefore  determined  to  make  an  effort  to 
prevent  the  threatened  evil. 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  said  she,  with  much  embar- 
rassment, for  she  knew  that  her  husband  was  like- 
wise interested  in  what  she  was  saying, — "  you 
would  no  doubt  be  very  kind  to  us,  if  we  lived 
together  in  the  city,  which,  on  many  accounts,  I 
should  prefer  to  the  country;  but  just  before  you 
came  in  Mr.  Webb  had  been  expressing  a  strong 
desire  to  go  in  the  country — and — and — you  know 
you,  yourself,  recommended  our  going — you  ad- 
vised me  to  it,  you  know." 


222  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

"  Yes,  Winny,  I  told  you  that  you  had  better 
send  the  little  man — I  mean  your  little  husband — 
in  short,  Winny,  where  is  the  use  of  your  reddening 
up  to  your  temples  every  time  I  make  a  mistake? 
You  must  get  used  to  it  if  I  live  near  you.  I  must 
call  your  husband  little,  while  I  am  near  him,  and 
see  that  he  is  small.  At  my  time  of  life  people 
want  indoor  amusement,  and  you  three  here,  would 
be  a  great — no,  a  little  help,  to  wile  away  an  hour 
or  two  in  a  rainy  evening." 

This  settled  the  matter  with  poor  Mrs.  Webb ; 
not  for  worlds  would  she  put  herself  in  the  way  of 
such  an  evil ;  she  therefore,  with  much  pretended 
humility,  disclaimed  all  right  to  decide  on  the  ques- 
tion of  living  in  the  town  or  country ;  she  said 
that,  like  a  prudent  wife,  she  meant  to  give  up  her 
own  wishes  to  please  her  husband — that  she  was 
certain  of  its  being  better  for  him  and  the  child  to 
be  in  pure  air,  and  now  all  that  she  should  ask  for 
this  full  compliance  with  his  wishes  was,  that  she 
should  have  the  privilege  of  naming  their  little 
girl. 

"  That  is  but  fair,  Winny,"  said  her  uncle,  "you 
have  certainly  the  right  of  naming  little  tiny  as 
you  choose.  But  stop — let  me  see — let  me  give 
the  child  a  name ;  I  will  stand  godfather  to  it,  and, 
what  is  better,  I  will  act  as  a  godfather  should.  I 
will  settle  a  thousand  dollars  a  year  on  her,  and 
will  give  you  a  very  pretty  little  farm — my  Oak 
Valley  farm.     Winny,  you  remember  that  farm." 

"You  shall  have  the  naming  of  our  little  girl — 
remember  Oak  Valley!  yes,  indeed  I  do  ;  I  can 
safely  trust  her  name  to  you — my  dear  husband, 
you  can  have  no  objection;  you  will  give  your 
consent,  I  hope." 

"Certainly,"  said  poor  Mr.  Webb,  his  mind  mis- 
giving him  about  the  name,  as  on  looking  at  Mr. 
Banks,  he  saw  his  features  announcing  a  new  burst 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  223 

of  merriment — "  I  have  no  objection  to  a  scripture 
name,  and  I  would  even  prefer  Winnifred," — cast- 
ing a  timid  glance  at  the  old  humourist, — "  to  many 
that  I  know." 

"  Well,  you  both  consent  then,  and  will  not 
retract — give  me  your  word  of  honour  to  let  me 
name  the  child  as  I  like,  in  case  I  settle  a  thousand 
dollars  a  year  upon  her."  Mrs.  Webb  eagerly  gave 
her  word,  and  her  husband,  after  again  expressing 
his  entire  willingness,  once  more  hinted  that  a  plain 
scripture  name  was  quite  as  agreeable  to  him  now, 
as  any  other. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Banks,  "  the  thing  is  set- 
tled. I  will  now  take  my  leave  and  go  to  my 
lodgings.  The  deed  for  Oak  Valley  shall  be  made 
out  immediately,  as  shall  the  settlement  on  our  little 
dolly — but,  Winny,"  said  he,  casting  a  sly  look  at 
Mr.  Webb — "  you  had  better  change  your  mind 
and  live  in  the  city;  your  going  so  far  off  from  me 
will  drive  me  back  to  Jamaica — what,  you  are 
determined  ?  well,  I  must  submit;  but  remember,  I 
must  name  dolly."  Saying  this,  he  walked  nimbly 
out  of  the  house,  apparently  unwilling  to  trust  him- 
self a  minute  longer  in  their  sight. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  day  the  deeds  were 
sent  to  them  by  which  the  estate  of  Oak  Valley 
was  secured  to  them,  as  was  likewise  a  settlement 
of  one  thousand  dollars  a  year,  which  sum  was  for 
the  use  of  the  parents  until  the  child  came  of  age. 
There  was  a  letter  accompanying  the  papers,  say- 
ing that  he  would  tell  them  his  mind  concerning  the 
name  of  the  child,  meantime  he  had  sent  them  each 
a  present,  which  he  hoped  would  do  away  all  past 
offences. 

"  Generous  man,"  said  the  enraptured  Mrs.  Webb, 
"  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  these  two  parcels,  so 
carefully  sealed,  contain  bank  notes;  here,  my 
dear,  this  one  is  directed  to  you — let  him  laugh,  I 


224  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

only  wish  I  may  be  able  to  sleep  this  night  under 
such  a  load  of  kindness.  That  farm  of  Oak  Val- 
ley, my  dear,  is  a  very  excellent  one — such  pas- 
turage, such  fine  springs  on  it" — and  while  she  was 
regaling  herself  with  a  recollection  of  its  many 
beauties  and  comforts,  she  was  at  the  same  time 
opening  her  little  packet,  which  was  enveloped  in 
fold  after  fold  of  paper,  each  one  carefully  sealed. 
Mr.  Webb  was,  however,  in  such  a  pleasing  reve- 
rie, that  her  words  fell  on  his  ear  without  his  having 
any  very  distinct  notion  of  what  she  was  saying, 
further  than  that  they  were  harmonizing  with  his 
feelings.  As  to  his  own  packet,  it  remained 
untouched  in  his  hand. 

"  And  then  there  is  such  a  pretty  river,  navigable 
too  for  small  craft,  running  at  the  very  foot  of  the 

farm;    you  can  take what  a  curious  conceit 

this  is  of  Uncle  Banks,  what  trouble  he  has  given 
himself  and  me  to,  in  enclosing  this  money,  for 
such  I  have  no  doubt  it  is,  in  so  many  covers;  I 
am  afraid  to  tear  them  loose  at  once,  lest  I  may 
tear  the  notes — my  dear,  why  do  you  not  begin 
to  open  yours  ?  I  am  sorry  my  poor  uncle  does  not 
like  the  country,  for  all  things  considered  we  might 
bear  with   his  fooleries — there,  thank  goodness,  I 

have  opened  the  last  pa" .     But  what  was  her 

chagrin  on  finding  that  it  contained  the  old  story 
book,  "  There  wras  a  little  woman,  as  I've  heard 
tell." 

Casting  her  quick  eye  towards  her  husband,  she 
saw  that  his  "eye  was  in  fine  frenzy  rolling,"  and 
that  he  had  been  long  past  attending  either  to  her 
packet  or  his  own ;  so,  wishing  to  spare  him  the 
mortification  which  she  had  just  encountered,  she 
gently  took  the  unopened  parcel  from  his  unresist- 
ing hand,  and  went  quietly  out  of  the  room.  She 
opened  this  second  parcel  with  much  less  ceremony 
than  she  did  her  own,  cutting  and  tearing  through 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  225 

the  numerous  folds,  and  just  as  she  expected,  she 
saw  a  book  of  the  same  size  as  the  other,  called, 
"  There  was  a  little  man,  and  he  wooed  a  little 
maid." 

Indignation  was  the  first  effect,  as  she  threw  the 
books  across  the  room,  but  surprise  and  pleasure 
soon  succeeded,  for  as  the  books  dashed  against  the 
wall,  sundry  bank  notes  fell  out  and  were  scattered 
on  the  floor.  On  examination  she  found  that  the 
eccentric  humourist  had  placed  a  one  hundred  dol- 
lar bank  note  between  every  two  leaves  of  each 
book. 

"  I  know  exactly,  my  dear  Hassy,"  said  the  now 
delighted  wife,  as  she  rushed  into  the  room,  "  I 
know  what  uncle  Banks  means  by  these  handsome 
presents — here  is  a  thousand  dollars  for  you  and 
the  same  sum  for  me.  Your  money  is  to  purchase 
stock  for  the  farm,  and  mine  is  to  buy  furniture ; 
was  there  ever  any  one  so  generous ! — laugh  ? 
who  cares  for  his  laughter  and  his  odd  ways,  when 
he  atones  for  them  in  such  a  handsome  manner  as 
this  1  Here,  my  dear,  put  the  money  carefully 
away,  while  I  pick  up  these  foolish  bits  of  paper." 

She  raised  herself  from  her  stooping  posture  on 
hearing  her  husband  sigh.  "What,  upon  earth,  my 
dear  Hassy,  is  the  matter  with  you?"  said  she,  in 
great  alarm,  for  she  feared  that  this  sudden  acces- 
sion of  wealth  had  disturbed  his  brain,  particularly 
as  her  own  was  in  a  whirl.  She  recollected,  too, 
at  the  moment,  that  Mr.  Webb  had  read  some 
observations  of  Dr.  Burroughs  on  the  subject  of 
insanity,  which  went  to  prove  that  there  were 
more  frequently  cases  of  aberration  of  mind  from  a 
rise  to  sudden  prosperity,  than  from  adversity. 
"  What  can  ail  you  1  surely  you  are  not  one  of 
those  weak  minded  persons  who  cannot  bear  a 
sudden  turn  of  good  fortune  V 

"  My  dear  Winny,"  said  her  husband,  in  the 

D 


226  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

most  rueful  tone  imaginable,  "  I  am  not  thinking 
in  the  least  of  the  money,  nor  of  the  farm,  but  of 
the  probability  of  our  child's  having  a  preposterous 
name." 

Mrs.  Webb  fairly  laughed  aloud.  "  Is  that  all  ?" 
said  she.  "  Why,  my  dear  Hassy,  I  would  not 
care  if  she  were  called  Nebuchadnezzar — provided 
she  were  a  boy — fret  about  a  name  !  Why,  can- 
not we  make  a  pleasant  abbreviation  of  it  in  case 
it  be  an  ugly  one'?  But  my  uncle  is  an  old  fashioned 
man,  and  I  apprehend  nothing  worse  than  Jerusha, 
or  Kezia,  or  Margaret." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so,  Winny,  but  I  fear  that  you 
are  too  sanguine;  I  dread  to  hear  the  name — 
nothing  can  compensate  me  if  the  name  be  a 
ridiculous  one." 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  a  note  was 
brought  from  Mr.  Banks,  bidding  them  farewell, 
saying  that  urgent  business  called  him  immediately 
to  Jamaica.  He  said  that  he  had  dwelt  with  much 
anxiety  on  the  subject  of  selecting  a  suitable  name 
for  their  baby,  and  after  discarding  a  number  of 
them  he  had  at  length  pitched  on  one  that  he 
thought  would  suit  all  parties ;  that  it  was  a  little 
of  the  longest,  to  be  sure,  but  then  this  fault  was 
made  up  in  its  dignity.  The  child,  he  said,  should 
be  called  Glumdalclitch. 

Any  one  would  have  pitied  the  poor  little  couple 
if  they  could  have  seen  the  consternation  which 
this  billet  produced. 

"  I  never  will  consent  to  this,"  said  Mr.  Webb, 
as  soon  as  his  anger  and  shame  would  allow  him 
to  speak — "  never  shall  my  child  reproach  me  with 
fastening  such  a  ridiculous  name  upon  her.  I  will 
write  this  instant  to  your  uncle  and  refuse  to  accept 
any  of  his  gifts  on  such  disgraceful  conditions.  No, 
no,  my  dear  Winny,  we  are — I,  at  least,  am  mark 
enough  for  ridicule,  but  this  is  a  thing  which  I  have 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  227 

learned  to  bear,  as  it  has  been  our  Creator's  will  to 
make  me  as  I  am ;  but  to  name  our  child  in  such 
fantastic  fashion,  would  be  indeed  to  invite  both 
scorn  and  laughter." 

But  prudent  Mrs.  Webb  had  cooled  in  propor- 
tion as  her  husband  was  excited.  She  had  felt  a 
good  deal  mortified  at  first  at  the  outlandish  name; 
but  during  the  indignant  burst  of  feeling  of  her  hus- 
band, she  began  to  think  thatGlumdalclitch,  although 
harsh  and  difficult  to  pronounce,  might  have  a  short 
and  pleasant  abridgment,  at  any  rate  there  was  no 
prohibition  to  a  double  name. 

Clearing  up  as  this  passed  through  her  mind,  she 
then  turned  to  give  her  husband  what  comfort  she 
could;  for  little  refinement  as  she  had  in  general, 
she  still  could  comprehend  the  morbid  sensibili- 
ties of  those  she  loved.  How  few  men  there  are 
who  know  how  to  appreciate  the  sympathy  of  a 
prudent,  tender  wife  !  Mr.  Webb  understood  the 
excellence  of  the  woman  who  now  stood  with  af- 
fectionate earnestness  before  him,  and  before  she 
had  talked  the  matter  over  the  third  time — in  her 
vague  yet  decisive  way — he  had  recovered  his 
equanimity.  Happy  to  perceive  that  he  had  re- 
sumed his  quiet  manner  again,  Mrs.  Webb  conti- 
nued, 

"  One  thousand  dollars  a  year  may  easily  com- 
pensate for  an  ugly  name;  and  even  if  we  do  not 
choose  to  give  the  child  a  middle  name,  which  is 
optional  with  us,  she  will  not  have  to  be  called  by 
her  Christian  name  long;  for  after  a  girl  is  in  her 
teens,  she  gets  the  title  of  her  surname.  She  will  be 
called  Miss  Webb,  you  know.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
my  dear,  this  name  which  is  so  disagreeable  to  us, 
may  not  be  thought  ugly  by  some  people." 

••  1'gly,"  said  her  husband,  "  do  you  know  what 
this  name  means  ? — but  no — I  heard  you  say  the 
other  day  that  you  had  never  read  Gulliver's  tra- 


228  1HE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

vels,  my  dear  Winny,"  blushing  deeply  as  he  said  it 
— "  Glumdalclitch  is  the  name  of  a  giantess  !" 

"  Well,  this  comes  of  so  much  reading ;  I  bless  my 
want  of  taste  that  way;  it  is  enough  to  make  one 
forswear  books ;  never  reproach  me  again  for  my 
indifference  towards  them.  I  am  sure  1  wish  Mr. 
Gulliver  had  staid  at  home,  if  he  could  have  com- 
municated nothing  better  than  such  a  hideous 
name.  But  where  is  the  use  of  fretting?  since  it  is 
so,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it,  and  then  you  know 
we  need  not  call  the  name  out  in  full ;  you  never 
call  me  Winnifred,  nor  do  I  call  you  Ahasuerus. 
Let  us  shorten  the  name  to  Glummy — no  1  Well, 
how  would  Clitchy  sound — you  don't  like  that.  Let 
us  shorten  it  to  Dally,  that  I  know  will  please  you, 
for  it  is  the  name  of  a  flower." 

"  How  often  Winny,"  said  her  fretted  husband, 
"  have  I  told  you  that  the  flower  is  called  Dahlia ;" 
suspending  for  a  moment  his  right  to  feel  indignant 
and  irritable,  to  do  justice  to  the  pronunciation  of  the 
name  of  a  flower. 

"  Dahlia  is  it  ?  well,  that  is  the  way  an  Irishman 
would  call  Delia.  Let  us  call  her  Delia  then,  it  is  a 
pretty  pastoral  name;"  and  as  she  said  this,  she  cast 
a  side  glance  at  her  husband." 

After  this,  and  other  conversations  of  the  kind, 
they  agreed  to  give  the  child  this  uncouth  name,  for 
the  charm  of  living  in  the  country  was  hourly 
growing  more  captivating  to  Mr.  Webb,  and  Mrs. 
Webb  had  a  great  reverence  for  a  thousand  dollars 
a  year.  Besides,  the  misery  of  living  where  they 
would  daily  be  subject  to  the  coarse  mirth  of  her 
uncle,  when  he  made  his  regular  visits  to  the  city, 
which  he  had  until  of  late  years,  been  always  in  the 
habit  of  doing,  was  becoming  more  and  more  ap- 
parent. She  even  with  more  alacrity  than  one 
could  expect,  set  about  making  preparations  for  her 
departure  to  Oak  Valley. 


THE   LITTLE  COUPLE.  229 

•  This  is  all  very  hard  upon  you,  my  clear  wife/' 
said  Mr.  Webb  to  her  one  day  when  he  saw  how 
<  hrerlully  she  was  preparing  for  their  removal; 
"  this  is  worse  for  you  than  for  me.  With  the  one 
part,  at  least,  I  am  more  than  gratified,  whereas 
your  feelings  and  taste  have  not  been  consulted  at 
all.  You  have  neither  the  satisfaction  of  living 
where  you  like  best,  nor  the  pleasure  of  having  a 
decent  name  for  your  child." 

"But  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  my  lit- 
tle girl  will  have  a  handsome  independence — and  do 
you  think,  my  dear  Hassy,  that  it  is  no  gratification 
to  me  to  see  that  our  going  to  the  country  is  an 
event  of  great  importance  to  your  health  and  hap- 
piness V 

"  My  dearest  Winny,"  said  her  tender-hearted, 
conscience-stricken  husband,  "  ]  do  not  deserve 
this  goodness.  I  cannot  enjoy  the  thought  of  going 
into  the  country,  unless  I  tell  you  how  it  has  been 
brought  about.  You  were  manoeuvred  into  this 
scheme,  my  dear  wife;  and  I  here  declare,  that 
much  as  I  wish  to  leave  the  city,  you  shall  yet  re- 
main if  you  wish  it.  Your  uncle  had  no  intention 
of  living  near  us,  if  we  remained  here;  he  was  eager 
to  get  us  all  into  the  country,  on  the  score  of  our 
health,  and  he  made  use  of  this  stratagem  to  induce 
you  to  consent  to  it.  Now  that  I  have  told  you 
the  truth,  pray  do  as  you  like  best;  but  with  respect 
to  the  settlement  on  our  child,  much  as  I  dislike  the 
name,  I  fear  she  would  not  thank  us  if  we  gave  that 
up  for  a  thing  of  such  little  consequence.  Giving 
up  the  farm,"  continued  he,  sighing  deeply,  "  is 
another  affair." 

"  Yes,"  said  his  wife  laughing,  "  I  see  it  is,  and  it 
would  be  a  worse  affair  if  you  knew  what  a  sweet 
spot  Oak  Valley  is ;  but  here  is  this  money,  this  two 
thousand  dollars — would  you  think  it  right  to  re- 
turn this  too, —  my  part  of  it  I  need  not  re- 
u2 


230  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

turn,  for  I  am  persuaded  it  was  to  purchase  furni- 
ture, which  will  suit  me  either  for  a  town  or  a  coun- 
try house.  Your's  was  no  doubt,  for  purchasing 
stock  for  the  farm ;  if  we  live  in  the  city  we  can 
have  no  pretence  for  keeping  that  part  of  it." 

But  Mr.  Webb  did  not  like  this  view  of  the  busi- 
ness at  all,  and  he  was  besides  getting  quite  uneasy, 
notwithstanding  his  late  compunctious  feelings,  lest 
his  wife  should  take  him  at  his  word,  and  remain 
where  she  was. 

Strange  perplexities  for  these  little  people,  but 
money  always  brings  as  much  pain  as  pleasure. 
Mrs.  Webb  had,  however,  accommodated  herself 
wonderfully  to  circumstances ;  she  generally  looked 
on  the  sunny  side  of  a  question,  and  she  had,  by 
working  it  over  in  her  mind  early  and  late,  viewing 
it  in  every  possible  shape,  fairly  brought  herself  to 
think,  that  all  things  considered  (this  was  a  favour- 
ite expression  of  hers)  farm,  income,  money  and 
health,  and,  though  last  not  least,  the  pleasure  of 
obliging  her  husband;  and  if  it  must  be  told,  the  hold 
she  would  have  on  him  for  this  double  disappoint- 
ment of  hers — the  plan  of  living  in  the  country 
would  be  the  very  best  thing  for  them  all. 

The  spring  opened  delightfully,  and  the  farm  was 
to  be  ready  for  them  in  a  few  days  ;  but  Mr.  Webb, 
wishing  to  make  the  removal  as  pleasant  as  possi- 
ble, could  not  bear  to  let  his  wife  go  until  every 
thing  was  tolerably  well  arranged  in  their  new 
house.  He  proposed,  therefore,  that  she  and  the 
child  should  go  to  see  a  relation  of  his  who  had 
never  yet  seen  her,  and  who  had  several  times  given 
her  pressing  invitations  to  pay  her  a  visit.  The 
rooms  they  occupied  at  present  had  been  let,  and 
new  boarders  were  to  take  possession  of  them  im- 
mediately. 

But  Mrs.  Webb  strongly  objected  to  this  plan — 
"  My  dear  Hassy,"  said  she,  "  no  fear  of  my  fa- 
tiguing myself  or  of  taking  cold.     I  shall  remain 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  231 

quietly  in  my  room  until  the  carpets  are  down  and 
the  furniture  unpacked.  You  will  never  catch 
me  paying  a  visit  to  a  near  relation  in  the  spring  of 
the  year,  unless  there  be  other  guests  there  at  the 
same  time ;  I  have  seen  too  much  of  that." 

"  But  why,"  said  Mr.  Webb,  "  why  in  the  spring 
of  the  year  more  than  in  any  other  season  V' 

"  Because,  then  you  are  treated  most  scandalous- 
ly. In  the  first  place,  they  begin  with — a  con- 
strained smile  on  their  face  all  the  while — I  am 
very  sorry  that  you  have  come  just  at  this  time,  not 
sorry  on  our  account,  but  on  your  own;  we  are 
pulling  every  thing  to  pieces  to  commence  house 
cleaning.  Our  best  bed-room,  which  you  ought  to 
have,  is  all  upside  down;  you  will  have  to  take  the 
third  story — and  such  a  room,  my  dear  Hassy — 
you  can  have  no  idea  of  it ;  I  shudder  when  I  think 
of  exposing  my  baby  to  it.  Perhaps  it  has  been  a 
nursery  or  neglected  school  room  ;  spots  of  ink  and 
grease  cover  the  floor,  great  black  knots  show 
themselves,  and  the  unseasoned  boards  gape  wide. 
Three  odd  chairs,  a  half  circular  wooden  toilet  table 
without  a  cover,  and  a  slim-posted,  ricketty  bedstead, 
with  a  feather  bed  scantily  filled,  and  which  still  more 
scantily  covers  the  bedstead — happy  if  it  have  a 
sacking  instead  of  a  rope  bottom — coarse  patched 
sheets,  darned  pillow  cases,  an  old  heirloom  blue 
chequered  counterpane,  a  broken  wash  basin  on  a 
little  foot-square  tottering  table,  and  a  blurred  look- 
ing glass,  complete  the  furniture  of  this  cold  north 
room.  I  shall  say  nothing  of  '  the  hearth  uncon- 
scious of  a  fire,'  nor  of  the  long  deep  cracks  in  the 
coarse  whitewashed  walls,  nor  of  the  rattling  of  the 
window  sashes." 

"What  a  picture  you  have  drawn,  Winny  !  you 
speak  very  feelingly;  have  you  ever  been  compelled 
to  sleep  in  such  a  room?  But  what  sort  of  fare  do 
you  receive  under  such  circumstances  ?" 


^32  ME  LITTLE  'COUPLE. 

"  Oh,  the  worst  in  the  world  ;  when  it  is  meal 
lime,  then  you  hear  this,  or  something  like  it:  '  How 
unfortunate  to  come  at  this  unpropitious  season  ?  ii 
is  so  uncomfortable  for  you ;  no  vegetables,  but  old 
potatoes;  no  salad  yet;  all  our  hams  gone;  nothing 
but  shoulders;  and  the  hens  arc  so  backward  this 
spring.' — No,  no,  my  dear  Hassy,  unless  there  be  vi- 
siters of  some  consequence  in  the  house,  never  go 
near  a  relation  in  the  spring  of  the  year;  I  mean,  if 
they  live  in  the  country.  There  is  no  exertion  made 
to  gratify  your  taste  or  your  palate  ;  a  more  forlorn 
state  of  things  cannot  be  imagined.  Now  in  June, 
or  July,  you  may,  on  the  score  of  your  being  a 
near  relation,  which  is  always  a  justifiable  ex- 
cuse, be  ushered  up  in  that  comfortless  north  room; 
but  then  coolness  and  shade  is  not  unpleasant — 
there  are  strawberries  and  blackberries,  in  their 
season,  along  the  hedges  and  meadows,  if  none  are 
to  be  had  in  the  garden — then  there  are  fresh  milch 
cows,  and  the  hens  cannot  help  laying  if  they  would 
— new  potatoes  come  in  plenty,  and  dock  and  pig- 
weed grow  without  culture.  I  would  rather  have 
them  than  spinach  at  any  time;  buttermilk  too  can 
be  had  for  asking;  and  you  can  rove  about  uncared 
for  and  unheeded,  which  I  can  tell  you  is  as  great  a 
luxury  when  you  are  in  the  country,  as  to  eat  fresh 
eggs  and  breathe  fresh  air." 

Mr.  Webb  was  exceedingly  amused  with  this  de- 
scription, and  as  his  wife  did  not  seem  to  consider  it 
an  evil  to  go  to  an  unaired  house,  he  did  not  think  it 
prudent  to  make  her  think  it  one.  Her  pliant,  well- 
regulated  mind  soon  enabled  her  to  overcome  her 
dislike  to  country  occupations;  and  even  to  exult  in 
her  achievement  in  the  way  of  making  butter  and 
cheese,  and  she  soon  excelled  in  raising  poultry — 
three  things  which  formerly  belonged  to  female 
management  alone.  Now,  however,  in  these  won- 
der-working days,  so  ravenous  are  men  for  monr 


THE  LITTLE  COUrLE.  233 

polies  and  for  experimentalizing,  that  they  have 
encroached  on  privileges,  which  even  the  old  task- 
masters of  the  female  sex  unreluctantly  yielded  to 
them. 

Mrs.  Webb,  although  of  slender  figure,  and  small 
in  size,  had  a  mind  as  active  and  as  comprehensive, 
a  temper  as  irritable,  and  was  as  bold  an  asserter 
of  her  own  rights,  as  the  stoutest  of  her  sex.  She 
soon  I'egulated  her  household  in  a  quiet,  economi- 
cal way,  and  had  none  but  female  servants  within 
doors;  detesting,  as  well  she  might,  the  appearance 
of  a  stale,  heavy-looking,  half-dirty  man  about  the 
room,  doing  woman's  work,  when  he  should  be  out 
of  doors  with  a  spade  or  a  hoe. 

What  a  bower  did  the  happy  Mr.  Webb  make  of 
Oak  Valley !  Such  a  profusion  of  sweet-scented 
shrubs  and  flowers  had  never  before  been  seen  in 
the  neighbourhood.  Fruit  trees  soon  made  their 
appearance ;  and  their  crops  of  grain  and  grass 
were  abundant  and  good.  But  what  his  wife  most 
admired  was,  the  regular  supply  of  wood  which  he 
provided  for  the  house — nicely  cut  and  piled;  a 
thing  generally  less  attended  to,  and  the  cause  of 
more  vexatious  disputes  between  the  farmer  and 
his  wife  than  any  other  part  of  their  arrangements. 
All  things,  therefore,  considered,  which  Mrs.  Webb 
was  still  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "  it  really  was  pre- 
ferable to  live  on  such  a  pleasant,  well  regulated 
farm  than  in  a  narrow  street  or  at  lodgings." 

Then  there  was  so  much  speculation  about  the 
right  breed  of  cows  and  poultry.  Mr.  Webb  first 
inclined  to  long-horns,  then  to  short-horns ;  but 
Mrs.  Webb  cut  the  matter  short  by  declaring  for 
no  horns ;  and  to  this  day  they  have  from  ten  to 
fifteen  of  these  meek,  subdued  animals,  so  fat  that 
they  could  not  do  much  in  the  way  of  running  from 
a  cross  cur  if  any  such  should  attack  them. 

She  had  her  own  way,  too,  with  the  poultry.  She 


234 


THE  LITTLE  COL'TLE. 


soon  banished  the  coarse,  long-legged  Buck's  coun- 
ty fowls,  with  their  uncouth  looking  bodies.  She 
said  their  tread  was  almost  as  heavy  as  a  young 
colt's;  and,  really,  when  she  pointed  to  a  dozen  of 
them  which  were  picking  their  way  over  a  straw- 
berry bed,  her  husband  submitted  in  silence  to  the 
order  given  to  the  farmer,  to  prepare  them  for  mar- 
ket. "And,  David,"  said  Mrs.  Webb,  after  the  man 
had  chased  the  fowls  from  the  garden,  "  see  what 
prospect  there  is  of  selling  off  our  stock  of  Ban- 
toms.  It  takes  twenty  of  their  eggs  to  make  a  pud- 
ding, and  they  lay  no  more  eggs  a  day  than  other 
hens — and,  David,  when  you  return  from  Wick- 
lowe,  cross  over  to  neighbour  Haywood's,  and  see 
what  he  will  take  for  two  or  three  pair  of  those 
old  fashioned  kind  of  hens — those  full,  broad  breast- 
ed, pale  speckled  ones  ;  sometimes  a  dingy  yellow 
and  sometimes  brown  and  gray,  with  large  spread- 
ing tails.  Those  are  the  only  kind.  But  above  all, 
David,  see  that  they  have  flesh  coloured  legs ;  they 
fatten  well ;  those  with  yellow  or  black  legs  are  not 
worth  raising — strange  that  people  are  so  inatten- 
tive to  such  important  matters." 

Sixteen  years  passed  away,  and  time,  as  the 
little  lady  said,  seemed  to  fly  with  them ;  every 
thing  prospered.  Mr.  Banks,  to  their  great  sur- 
prise, never  came  near  them.  He  contented  him- 
self with  sending  them  a  yearly  present ;  and  heard 
of  the  birth  of  each  succeeding  child  with  a  fresh 
burst  of  merriment.  Their  children,  all  girls,  were 
six  in  number;  and  their  income  was  now  about 
three  thousand  dollars  a  year. 

Mr.  Webb,  in  the  most  peaceable,  unaccountable 
manner,  had  been  allowed  the  pleasure  of  naming 
four  of  his  children.  Perhaps — for  woman's  ten- 
derness will  sometimes  increase — perhaps  she  felt 
for  his  first  disappointment ;  and,  as  it  rose  out  of 
the  caprice  of  a  relative  of  her  own,  she  deter- 


THE   LITTLE  COUPLE.  235 

mined  on  remaining  quiet,  only  resolving  to  inter- 
fere if  an  outrageously  romantic  name  presented 
itself  to  his  imagination. 

The  first  child  literally  had  no  name  until  the 
birth  of  the  second ;  then,  as  the  "  child,"  or  the 
"  baby"  could  no  longer  distinguish  it,  they  took  it 
to  the  font  and  had  it  christened.  The  clergyman, 
old  Mr.  Saxeweld,  was  then  a  stranger  to  them,  for 
through  very  shame  they  would  not  apply  to  their 
own  pastor.  He  did  not  rightly  understand  what 
Mr.  Webb  said,  when  he  demanded  the  name  of  the 
child,  for  he  never,  for  a  moment,  dreamed  of  Gul- 
liver. He  asked  over  and  over  again,  and  still  the 
sound  of  Glumdalclitch  came  to  his  ear.  "Is  it  a 
French  name  V  said  he,  looking  angrily  at  Mrs. 
Webb,  who,  nothing  disconcerted  by  all  this  hub- 
bub about  the  name,  was  enjoying  the  triumph 
which  she  should  have  over  her  husband  when  she 
got  home,  in  telling  him  that  there  was  one  other 
person  in  the  world  beside  herself  who  had  not 
read  Gulliver's  Travels. 

Mr.  Webb  was  ready  to  sink  in  the  earth ;  he 
felt  that  he  could  at  that  moment  renounce  the 
world  and  all  its  vanities,  as  well  as  the  child's 
income,  which  had  caused  all  this  disgrace. 

"  I  presume,"  said  Mr.  Saxeweld,  willing  to  put 
an  end  to  the  scene,  "  I  presume  it  is  a  French 
name.  Colombo — what?"  But  Mr.  Webb  was  past 
appeal;  he  felt  a  hollow  ringing  in  his  ears;  and, 
in  time  to  save  him  from  fainting,  the  child  was 
christened  Colombe. 

The  clergyman,  a  testy  old  man,  was  so  pro- 
voked at  what  he  thought  stupidity  in  the  father  of 
the  child,  that  he  felt  disposed  to  rebuke  him ;  and 
when  poor  Mr.  Webb  turned  to  him,  as  he  was 
leaving  the  church,  to  offer  him  the  accustomed 
fee,  he  not  only  refused  it,  but  broke  out  in  this  way 
— "  Never  come  to  me  again ;  vou,  with  a  name 


236  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

bigger  than  your  whole  body;  and  which  is  too 
long  for  your  mouth  to  utter.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  my  knowledge  of  French,  I  should  have  chris- 
tened your  child  Glumdalclitch,  and  it  would  have 
been  serving  you  right  if  I  had." 

After  Colombe  came  Flora,  then  Rosa,  then  Imo- 
gen, then  Christabelle ;  and,  when  the  sixth  was 
old  enough  for  baptism,  while  Mr.  Webb  was  de- 
ciding between  Diana  and  Lilius,  Mrs.  Webb  went 
to  church  during  a  week-day  service,  with  a  friend, 
and  came  home  in  triumph,  with  the  only  Christian 
name,  as  she  said,  in  the  family — it  was  Rebecca. 
Mr.  Webb  thanked  his  stars  that  it  was  no  worse. 

Old  Mr.  Banks  made  no  other  remarks,  when  he 
heard  of  the  mistake  in  the  child's  name,  than  that 
the  income  should  now  be  divided  between  the  chil- 
dren, as  at  the  time  he  did  not  imagine  that  the  little 
girl  would  ever  have  any  rivals.  When  the  little 
Rebecca  was  about  two  years  old,  the  old  gentle- 
man took  it  into  his  head  to  pay  the  tiny  family  a 
visit,  to  see  how  they  all  looked  together. 

Early,  one  fine  spring  morning,  he  made  his  ap- 
pearance at  Oak  Valley,  accompanied  by  Stephen 
Haywood,  with  whose  father  he  had  long  been  ac- 
quainted. While  on  the  way  to  the  farm,  he  enter- 
tained our  young  friend  Stephen  with  an  account  of 
his  first  interview  with  the  little  couple  and  their 
tiny  little  child.  "  How  I  shall  stand  it  now,"  said 
he,  "  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  am  sixteen  years  older, 
and  a  man  of  eighty  has  nearly  expended  all  his 
laughter.     It  is  high  time,  I  think." 

Young  Haywood,  who,  although  not  introduced 
to  the  family  at  that  time,  yet  knew  them  well, 
from  report,  could  not  help  smiling;  but  the  old 
gentleman's  attention  was  soon  directed  to  the  neat- 
ness and  order  of  the  farm ;  and,  when  Stephen 
asked  him  if  he  had  an  idea  that  the  children  were 


THE  LITTLE  COUPLE.  237 

all  as  small  as  their  parents,  he  could  scarcely  an- 
swer. 

"  Assuredly  they  are  ;  why,  if  any  one  of  thr  six 
had  been  but  an  inch  taller  than  themselves,  they 
would  have  sent  an  express  to  me  at  Jamaica." 

A  servant  came  to  the  door,  and  Mr.  Banks 
asked  eagerly,  if  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Webb  and  the  six 
little  children  were  at  home.  The  girl  stared,  but 
replied  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Webb,  and  some  of  the 
children,  were  in  the  garden,  and  some  of  the 
younger  ones  were  in  the  nursery ;  but  that  Miss 
Webb,  the  eldest  daughter,  was  in  the  parlour. 
"  Show  me  in,  show  me  in,"  said  he ;  and  into  the 
room  he  nimbly  stepped,  winking  aside  to  young 
Haywood,  to  express  his  glee.  He  seemed  quite 
disappointed  at  seeing  only  a  middle  sized  young 
lady  sitting  there.  She  arose  on  the  old  gentle- 
man's precipitate  entrance,  while  he  exclaimed,  "  I 
thought  to  find  one  of  Mr.  Webb's  tiny  little  chil- 
dren here." 

"  I  am  Mr.  Webb's  eldest  daughter,"  said  the 
young  lady,  blushing,  "  my  parents  will  be  in  pre- 
sently— will  you  sit  down?"  and  she  presented  each 
gentleman  with  a  chair. 

Never  was  man  more  amazed — this  young  lady 
his  little  niece's  daughter? — he  certainly  saw  a  like- 
ness ;  but  it  was  altogether  a  puzzle.  At  length  he 
roused  himself  to  say,  "  Why  did  not  your  mother 
write  me  word  that  they  had  a  child  as  tall  as  you 
arc?  What  is  your  name?  Oh, — I  remember — 
Colombo.  It  is  a  foolish  name  enough;  but  it  might 
have  been  worse.  Never  mind,  my  dear,  I  will 
make  you  amends  for  your  French  name ;  better 
though  than — but  no  matter ;  let  me  introduce  you 
to  Mr.  Stephen  Haywood." 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  his  niece,  with 
her  husband,  and  the  five  children,  made  their  ap- 
pearance. But  if  Mr.  Banks  was  amazed  at  seeing 
x 


238  THE  LITTLE  COUPLE. 

the  respectable  height  of  the  eldest  daughter,  how 
much  more  so  was  he  when  he  saw  that  there  was 
nof'.one  of  the  diminutive  stature  of  the  parents. 
Even  the  youngest,  a  rosy  little  girl,  just  begin- 
ning to  walk,  bade  fair  to  be  as  tall  as  her  sisters. 
Mrs.  Webb  enjoyed  her  uncle's  amazement;  not 
without  suspicion,  however,  that  he  was  disappoint- 
ed at  bottom,  because  there  were  no  dwarfs  among 
them.  But  in  a  short  time,  the  old  gentleman's 
good-natured  eye  glistened  at  the  pictures  of  health, 
order  and  obedience  of  the  children,  and  at  the  im- 
proved looks  of  the  parents.  He  did  not  laugh 
once  during  his  visit,  which  was  of  a  week's  dura- 
tion ;  and  when  he  left  them,  he  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  seeing  that  Stephen  Haywood  was  following 
his  advice;  which  was,  to  fall. in  love  with  his 
pretty  pigeon  as  fast  as  possible. 


THE    BAKER'S    DOZEN. 


"  Mrs.  Bangs,  look  here,"  said  the  cook,  "  look 
at  this  queer  thing  in  the  turkey's  craw;  it  looks 
for  all  the  world  like  a  brickbat." 

"  O  never  mind  the  brickbat,"  said  Mrs.  Bangs, 
"  let  that  alone ;  'tis  no  concern  of  ours — only  make 
haste  and  prepare  the  turkey  for  the  spit.  Your 
head  is  always  running  after  things  that  don't  con- 
cern you." 

Thus  spoke  Mrs.  Bangs,  the  mother  of  thirteen 
children,  all  girls.  She  was  a  strong,  healthy 
woman  of  fifty  years  of  age,  and  in  the  three 
characters  of  daughter,  wife  and  mother,  had  been 
exemplary.  She  was  the  only  child  of  a  respecta- 
ble farmer,  and  at  her  parent's  death  inherited  the 
farm  which  a  few  years  after  her  marriage  rose 
greatly  in  value.  It  was  on  the  outskirts  of  a  popu- 
lous city  which  had  increased  so  rapidly  that  at 
the  birth  of  her  second  child  the  farm  was  laid  out 
in  streets,  in  every  one  of  which  they  had  sold 
several  lots  for  buildings. 

Her  husband  was  a  chemist,  and  his  laboratory 
was  very  near  this  valuable  property,  so  that  he 
could  attend  to  his  business  in  the  manufactory  and 
look  after  the  workmen  who  were  building  his 
houses.     What  Mr.  Bangs  learned  during  his  ap- 


240  the  baker's  dozen. 

prenticeship,  that  he  knew  well,  and  on  that 
stock  of  knowledge  he  operated  all  his  life.  He 
manufactured  the  best  aqua  ammonia  in  the  coun- 
try, free  from  that  empyreumatic,  old  tobacco-pipe 
taste  and  smell,  which  it  has  in  general  when  made 
in  America,  and  his  salt  of  tartar  had  not  an 
opaque  grain  in  it.  Thus  it  was  with  all  the  drugs 
that  he  made,  for  he  was  more  intent  upon  keeping 
up  his  good  name  than  in  making  money  speedily, 
and  his  pride  was  in  having  it  said  that  Christo- 
pher Bangs's  word  was  as  good  as  his  bond.  Fur- 
ther than  this  there  was  but  little  to  be  said,  except- 
ing that  he  was  a  disappointed  man,  and  had  the 
feeling  of  being  ill  used. 

This  disappointment  consisted  in  not  having  a 
son — one,  he  said,  who  could  take  up  the  business 
when  he  laid  it  down — one  to  whom  he  could  con- 
fide the  few  secrets  of  his  trade. 

When  the  birth  of  the  first  girl  was  announced, 
it  was  very  well ;  not  that  he  did  not  fret  in 
secret,  but  he  took  it  as  a  thing  of  course,  and 
as  he  was  daily  in  the  habit  of  hearing  Mrs. 
Bangs  congratulate  herself  that  the  child  was 
a  girl,  because  she  could  assist  her  in  her  house- 
hold cares,  he  was  resigned  to  it,  although  it 
was  full  three  months  before  his  club  mates  were 
told  of  his  having  an  increase  of  family.  But  he 
really  did  murmur  when  the  second  girl  came. 
"  Why,  at  this  rate,"  said  he,  indignantly,  "  I  can- 
not have  a  child  named  after  me  at  all.  Christo- 
pher Bangs  will  end  with  me,  and  who  is  to  be  the 
better  of  all  the  valuable  secrets  of  the  labora- 
tory?" 

"  Oh,  la!  my  dear,"  said  his  wife,  "  let  that  alone, 
it's  no  concern  of  ours,  and  as  to  the  child's  name, 
don't  fret  about  that,  for  can't  I  name  this  dear 
chubby  little  thing  Christina,  the  short  of  which  is 
Kitty,  and  that  is  as  good  as  Kit  any  day  in  the 


the  baker's  dozen.  241 

year  ;  and  only  think  what  a  help  this  dear,  chubby 
little  thing  will  be  to  her  sister." 

Mr.  Bangs  sulked  out  of  the  room  and  went  to 
his  laboratory,  and  his  wife  went  through  her 
nursing  and  household  duties  with  double  alacrity. 
The  third  daughter  came,  and  Mr.  Bangs  heard  it 
with  surprise  that  bordered  on  despair.  "  Never 
mind  it,  Kit,"  said  the  contented,  good-tempered 
Mrs.  Bangs  ;  "  we'll  call  this  dear,  chubby,  little 
thing  after  your  old  uncle  Joseph;  Josephine  is  a 
very  pretty  name." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  call  it,"  said  her  crusty 
husband;  "I  consider  myself  as  an  ill  used,  injured 
man ;  only  I  hope,  since  you  like  girls  so  well,  that 
you  may  have  a  round  dozen  of  them." 

"Oh  la!  husband,  what  makes  you  so  spiteful 
against  girls?"  said  she — "  but  let  that  alone,  it  is 
no  concern  of  ours — a  dozen,  indeed !  how  do  you 
think  we  can  manage  to  live  in  this  small  house 
with  so  large  a  family?  You  must  build  a  bigger 
house,  man;  so,  my  dear  Kit,  set  about  it," — and 
this  was  all  the  concern  it  gave  her. 

After  that  he  troubled  himself  no  more  with 
inquiries  about  the  sex  of  the  child,  and  in  due 
time,  one  after  the  other,  the  round  dozen  came. 
The  only  thing  that  troubled  the  contented,  busy 
woman  was  the  naming  of  the  little  girls.  She 
certainly,  when  she  could  spare  her  thoughts  from 
her  increased  cares,  would  have  liked  a  boy  now 
and  then,  to  please  her  husband ;  but  as  this  was 
not  to  be,  she  did  the  next  best  thing  to  it — she 
gave  them  all  boys'  names.  So,  after  the  first, 
which  was  called  Robina,  came  Christina,  then 
Josephine,  then  Phillippa,  Augusta,  Johanna,  Ga- 
briella,  Georgiana,  and  Wilhelmina.  At  the  birth  of 
her  tenth  child  she  paused — her  father's  name  was 
Jacob,  and  as  she  had  name  Gabriella  after  her 
husband's  father,  Gabriel,  she  thought  it  but  lair  to 
x  2 


242  the  baker's  dozen. 

honour  her  own  likewise — but  Jacob  !  However, 
she  was  not  a  woman  to  stop  at  trifles,  even  if  she 
had  the  time;  so  the  poor,  little,  chubby  thing — for 
now  she  added  poor  to  the  chubby — the  poor, 
chubby,  little  thing  was  called  Jacobina.  Then  in 
due  time  came  the  eleventh,  which  was  Frederica — 
— the  twelfth,  Benjamina — "  and  now,"  said  the 
still  happy  Mrs.  Bangs,  "  what  to  call  my  baker's 
dozen  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  I  have  one  more  than 
Christopher  wished  me  to  have,  but  let  that  alone  ; 
'tis  no  concern  of  ours ;  only  Robina,  dear,  step  to 
the  parlour  and  tell  your  father  what  a  strait  I  am 
in  about  the  name.  There  is  his  friend,  Floss ;  he 
has  a  curly  headed,  chubby  little  boy  by  the  name 
of  Francis,  and  it  is  a  girl's  name  too;  ask  him  if 
he  would  like  to  name  the  poor,  dear,  chubby,  little 
thing  after  his  friend's  son." 

"  Tell  your  mother — are  you  Phillippy  ?"  "  No, 
father,  I  am  Robina."  "  You  are  all  so  much  alike," 
said  he,  "  that  I  don't  know  you  apart ;  girls  all  look 
alike;  now  if  one  of  you  had  been  a  boy,  as  any 
reasonable  man  had  a  right  to  expect,  I  could  have 
told  the  difference.  It  is  a  hard  thing  that  a  man 
cannot  tell  one  child  from  another,  a  thing  that  I 
could  have  done  if  they  had  been  boys." 

"  But  mother  knows  us  all  apart,"  said  Robina, 
"  and  so  do  Hannah  French  and  our  dear  grand- 
father and  grandmother  Bangs — thev  never  arc  in 
doubt." 

"  Don't  tell  me  this,"  said  surly  Mr.  Bangs, "  for 
have  I  not  heard  your  mother  call  you  the  one  half 
of  four  or  five  names  before  she  could  hit  on  the 
right  one?  Does  she  not  call  out  'Phil — Will — 
Fred — Jo — Ben — Robina,  fetch  me  the  poor,  dear, 
chubby,  little  thing  out  of  the  cradle?'  Tell  her 
that  Fabius  Floss  won't  think  it  any  compliment  to 
name  a  girl  after  his  fine  little  boy,  and  tell  her  that 


THE  BAKER'S  DOZEN.  213 

I  am  not  going  to  stand  godfather  to  any  more  of 
her  children,  for  I  am  tired  of  it." 

"  But  the  name,  father — shall  mother  call  it 
Frances  V 

"  She  may  call  it  Souse  if  she  likes ;  what  is  the 
name  of  a  girl  to  me  ?  it  is  all  one,  so  go  away, 
Robina,  for  I  am  busy." 

"  Christopher  Bangs  was  now  a  rich  man,  and 
was  cautious  and  prudent  in  all  his  money  matters, 
but  he  had  no  more  care  of  his  children  and  house- 
hold than  if  he  were  the  great-grandfather.  He 
arose  early,  went  to  the  workshop,  saw  that  every 
thing  went  right  there,  returned  home  at  eight, 
with  the  certainty  of  finding  the  breakfast  waiting 
for  him.  At  this  meal  he  only  saw  some  of  the 
eldest  of  the  girls,  but  being  a  man  of  few  words, 
and  looking  on  women  and  girls  as  mere  workers, 
and  of  a  different  race,  he  had  no  thoughts  in  com- 
mon with  them.  The  conversation,  therefore,  was 
all  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Bangs,  who  told  of  the  price 
of  beef  and  poultry,  and  what  her  husband  might 
expect  at  dinner.  He  nodded  his  head  drily,  but 
said  nothing,  being  sure  that,  come  what  would,  he 
should  find  an  excellent  meal.  He  gave  her  as 
much  money  as  she  wanted,  a  privilege  which 
she  never  abused,  and  all  he  had  to  do  was  to 
build  a  new  house  whenever  she  presented  him 
with  another  poor,  chubby,  little  thing  ;  for  she  had 
resolved  that  every  child  should  have  a  house. 

Exactly  at  one  o'clock  his  dinner  was  ready,  and 
at  this  meal  all  the  children  were  assembled — for, 
as  his  wife  observed,  if  he  did  not  see  them  all 
together  once  a  day,  he  might  chance  to  forget 
some  of  them  ;  so,  in  time,  Frances,  the  baker's 
dozen,  came  to  sit  on  Mrs.  Bangs's  lap.  Every  day 
he  made  the  same  remark  on  entering  the  dining 
room,  the  children  all  being  seated  before  he 
entered,  that  the  bustle  of  placing  them  might  be 


24 i  the  baker's  dozen. 

over  before  he  came — "What!  here  you  allure, 
all  waiting  I  see ;  well,  keep  quiet  and  help  one 
another;  don't  expect  me  to  do  more  than  carve." 

Mrs.  Bangs  had  drilled  the  children  well,  for  a 
more  orderly,  peaceable  set  were  never  seen.  Her 
chief  aim  was  to  keep  them  from  troubling  their 
father.  "Poor  man,"  she  would  say,  "he  must 
not  be  plagued  with  noise,  for  what  with  the  busi- 
ness of  the  laboratory  and  building  new  houses,  his 
hands  are  full — but  let  that  alone,  'tis  no  concern 
of  ours." 

She  never  thought  of  her  own  full  hands  ;  for  she 
was  of  a  nature  that  delighted  in  work,  and  in  doing 
things  regularly  and  methodically,  and  all  the  girls 
were  like  her.  Busy,  busy,  busy,  they  all  were 
from  morning  till  night,  and  most  happily  busy.  It 
was  making,  and  mending,  and  razeeing,  and 
cooking,  and  preserving,  and  housekeeping,  and 
shopping,  and  keeping  accounts.  Was  not  this 
quite  enough  to  occupy  them? 

Mr.  Bangs  built  houses  and  Mrs.  Bangs  looked 
to  the  tenants  and  collected  the  rents.  The  only 
thing  she  knew,  out  of  the  routine  of  her  family 
duties,  was  the  various  wrays  of  disposing  of 
money,  and  before  she  wras  the  mother  of  three 
children  she  made  herself  fully  acquainted  with  the 
meaning  of  the  terms  dividends,  stock,  per  centage, 
mortgages  and  notes  of  hand.  She  put  the  money  in  the 
bank  as  fast  as  she  received  it,  and  Mr.  Bangs  drew 
checks  to  any  amount  she  chose — well  he  might. 

Mrs.  Bangs  thought  it  more  suitable  and  eco- 
nomical to  have  a  governess  for  her  daughters,  so 
she  hired  a  decent  young  person,  who  was  an 
excellent  needle  woman,  and  who  could  write  and 
cipher  admirably.  Reading  and  spelling,  Mrs. 
Bangs  said,  seemed  to  come  "  by  nature"  with  the 
poor,  dear,  chubby,  little  things;  how  else  could 
they  learn,  for  poor  Hannah  French  was  as  deaf 


the  taker's  dozen.  245 

as  a  post.  So  eternally  busy  were  they  all  from 
morning  till  ten  at  night,  that  Robina,  a  pretty, 
delicate  girl,  with  a  good  understanding,  and  very 
excitable,  had  never  found  time  to  cultivate  the 
acquaintance  of  any  of  the  young  girls  of  her  own 
age,  although  in  the  abstract  there  was  no  unwil- 
lingness to  it.  Neither  her  father  nor  mother 
would  have  hindered  her,  but  sisters  and  com- 
panions came  so  fast  at  home,  and  that  home  was 
made  so  happy  by  her  active,  well-principled  mo- 
ther, that  there  was  no  craving  for  out-door  society. 

Mrs.  Bangs  was  a  pious  and  benevolent  woman 
too,  and  after  going  through  all  her  home  duties 
she  thought  of  the  poor,  and  three  days  she  set 
apart  in  every  month  to  sew  for  them.  All  the 
children,  down  to  the  baker's  dozen,  felt  this  as 
part  of  their  duty,  and  they  no  more  thought  it 
possible  to  break  through  the  rule  than  not  to  eat 
when  they  were  hungry.  It  was  a  leant  which  they 
sought  to  attain  like  any  other  want  or  comfort. 

Mrs.  Bangs  never  staid  to  inquire  whether  the 
poor  wretches  were  worthy  of  her  attentions — "Let 
that  alone,"  she  would  say,  "  'tis  no  concern  of 
ours."  She  reverently  left  it  to  a  higher  power  to 
judge  of  their  worthiness.  All  she  had  to  do  was 
to  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  naked,  choosing 
old  age  and  infancy  whenever  she  could,  for  the 
objects  of  her  bounty.  The  children  thus  brought 
up,  I  should  like  to  know, — as  they  did  their  own 
clearstarching,  knitted  stockings  for  their  father, 
grandfather,  and  three  aged  uncles,  made  their 
own  linen  and  worked  all  the  baby  caps,  as  well  as 
sewed  for  the  poor — I  should  like  to  know  what 
time  they  had  to  gossip  or  make  acquaintances, 
excepting  with  the  poor? 

They  had  no  time — even  on  Sunday  their  faces 
were  not  familiar  to  the  congregation,  for  a  cot- 
tage  bonnet   and   a   veil  kept  them  from  gazing 


246  THE  BAKER'S  D02EN*. 

about ;  so  the  conversation,  when  they  returned, 
was  not  about  the  dress  or  spiteful  looks  of  this 
person  or  that.  If  by  accident  an  observation  was 
made,  indiscreetly,  the  mother  would  stop  them 
immediately  by  her  eternal  saying — "  Let  that 
alone,  'tis  no  concern  of  ours." 

She  kept  her  accounts  in  excellent  order,  ini- 
tiating her  children  early  in  the  mysteries  of  bank 
stock  operations ;  for  when  it  came  to  be  explained 
to  them  in  the  mother's  simple  way,  the  children 
understood  it  as  well  as  A,  B,  C.  It  is  the  hard 
words,  and  the  mystification,  and  solemn  nonsense 
kept  up  about  it  that  keeps  women  so  ignorant  and 
helpless  in  these  matters,  and  makes  them  so 
entirely  dependent  on  men,  who  nineteen  times  out 
of  twenty  cheat  them  when  they  become  widows. 

As  their  wealth  increased,  so  were  her  benevo- 
lent feelings  excited,  and  Mr.  Bangs  was  no  hin- 
derance,  for  he  had  no  love  of  hoarding  now  that 
there  were  no  boys  to  inherit  his  property.  "  Ne- 
ver mind  that,  Christopher,"  she  would  say,  when 
this  sore  subject  was  touched  upon,  "  let  that 
alone,  'tis  no  concern  of  ours ;  but  I  am  of  opinion 
that  every  man  should  make  a  will,  and  here  is  one 
that  I  drew  up,  which  I  wish  you  to  sign."  "I'll 
tell  you  what  it  is,  Molly  Bangs,"  said  he,  on 
reading  the  will,  "  I'll  do  none  of  this.  I've  made 
my  will  already,  and  if  you  outlive  me  then  all 
belongs  to  you;  but  if  you  die  first,  then  I  mean  to 
marry  again,  because  the  chance  is  that  I  may 
have  sons;  for  I  tell  you  that  such  secrets  as  I  have 
to  disclose  about  my  business  ought  not  to  die  with 
a  man." 

Mrs.  Bangs  knew  her  husband's  obstinacy  too 
well  to  make  further  words  about  the  matter,  so 
she  set  herself  to  work  to  remedy  the  evil.  Instead 
of  wanting  to  build  a  hospital  or  an  asylum  for 
the  poor  and  destitute,  she  built  a  row  of  houses 


the  baker's  dozen.  247 

in  one  of  the  back  streets  of  her  valuable  lot  of 
ground,  for  poor  widows  with  young  children,  and 
she  studied  their  comfort  in  every  thing.  Each  di- 
vision, for  the  row  was  uniform  and  fire-proof,  con- 
sisted of  four  rooms,  two  below,  and  two  above. 
The  sitting  room  and  bed-rooms  were  warmed  by 
means  of  heated  air  from  a  furnace  in  the  kitchen, 
which  was  so  constructed  that  the  cooking  was  done 
at  the  same  fire.  Even  the  stove  pipe  which  was 
carried  up  to  let  off'  the  gas  and  smoke,  threw  all 
the  external  heat  into  the  room  above,  so  that  all 
was  kept  warm  by  one  fire.  The  cistern  of  rain 
water  was  close  to  the  kitchen,  and  the  water  was 
drawn  within  by  means  of  Hale's  rotary  pump. 
Drinking-water  was  likewise  introduced  by  a  pipe, 
and  a  drain  carried  off  all  the  slops  from  the  house. 
She  could  not  bear  to  think  that  poor  women  should 
have  to  put  up  with  so  many  inconveniences,  when 
it  cost  so  little  to  make  them  comfortable. 

When  a  very  rich  man  has  a  few  lots  in  an  out 
of  the  way  place,  he  builds  a  row  of  houses  for  poor 
people  and  gets  a  good  rent  for  them — enjoining  it  on 
his  agent  not  to  let  a  poor  widow  have  any  one  of 
them;  because,  if  she  should  be  unable  to  pay  her 
rent,  he  would  be  ashamed  to  sell  her  little  furni- 
ture. His  houses  are  miserably  built,  generally  one 
brick  thick,  and  with  only  one  coat  of  plaster  on 
the  walls;  no  crane  in  the  kitchen,  no  cistern,  no 
well,  no  comfort  of  any  kind.  The  poor  tenants 
might  think  themselves  well  off  with  having  the 
shell  to  cover  them. 

Mrs.  Bangs  knew  that  the  life  to  come  was  a  long 
one — to  last  for  ever ;  so  she  thought  it  was  not 
worth  while  to  hoard  up  money  for  the  very  short 
time  she  had  to  live  here.  She  had  a  great  love  of 
comfort  herself,  and  so  had  all  her  children;  and 
they  could  not  bear  to  set  a  poor  widow  in  an  empty 
house,  without  even  a  closet  to  put  her  clothes  in. 


248  THE  BAKER'S  DOZEN". 

So  she  had  closets  made  between  the  two  bed  rooms, 
and  likewise  between  the  parlour  and  kitchen.  And 
she  gave  them  a  chance  of  helping  themselves  still 
further  by  having  a  good  deep,  dry  cellar,  where 
they  could  keep  their  half  barrel  of  fish,  and  their 
little  joints  of  meat,  and  small  pots  of  butter  from 
the  heats  of  summer,  and  their  vegetables  from  the 
frosts  of  winter,  and  why  coal  and  wood  should  be 
kept  out  of  doors  in  winter  was  more  than  she 
could  tell.  It  was  easy  to  build  a  cellar,  she  thought, 
and  so  the  cellars  were  made.  "  It  seems  to  me," 
she  continued  to  say,  "  that  men  have  no  idea  of 
comfort  themselves,  or  they  would  not  grudge  it  to 
their  poor  tenants ;  women  understand  these  matters 
better,  and  as  God  has  endowed  them  with  greater 
sensibilities  than  the  other  sex,  why  it  is  incumbent 
on  them  to  show  their  grateful  sense  of  this  partial- 
ity in  their  favour ;  and  how  can  we  show  it  but  by 
attending  to  those  little  things  which  make  up,  by 
their  great  number,  all  the  happiness  of  life?  Men 
never  view  the  subject  in  this  light,  but  let  that 
alone,  'tis  no  concern  of  ours." 

The  thirty  houses,  with  the  plainest  furniture  that 
could  be  bought,  cost  exactly  thirty  thousand  dol- 
lars— the  precise  sum  she  intended  to  appropriate 
to  them.  Fuel  and  repairs  and  taxes  cost  her  twelve 
hundred  a  year;  this  with  the  interest  on  the  thirty 
thousand,  came  to  three  thousand  dollars  a  year. 
With  an  income  of  more  than  thirty  thousand,  and 
the  prospect  of  a  great  rise  in  the  value  of  her  lots 
of  ground,  what  was  the  annual  loss  of  three  thou- 
sand dollars? 

As  it  was  solely  for  poor  widows  that  this  charity 
was  built,  she  did  not  allow  a  woman  to  live  in  one 
of  the  houses  a  moment  after  she  married  again; 
nor  would  she  take  a  woman  who  had  been  twice  a 
widow.  When  the  children  grew  up  and  were  no 
longer  a  burden  to  their  mother,  then  this  mother 


THE  BAKER'S  DOZEN".  219 

was  allowed  a  dollar  a  week,  and  placed  comforta- 
bly with  one  of  her  children  elsewhere,  and  this  sum 
was  continued  until  the  child  was  able  to  maintain 
her.  To  see  that  no  one  imposed  upon  her  became 
one  of  her  tasks;  but  she  was  seldom  deceived,  for 
she  made  many  allowances  for  poor  people.  She 
even  made  more  allowances  for  them,  than  for  the 
rich;  for  poverty,  she  thought,  was  such  an  evil  in 
itself  that  we  should  not  expect  all  the  virtues  to 
centre  in  the  poor  alone.  If  she  saw  that  some  lit- 
tle unfair  attempt  was  made  to  excite  her  pity,  she 
would  wink  at  it  and  say,  "  let  that  alone,  'tis  no 
concern  of  ours ;  of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  deceive 
me  in  other  things  as  they  may,  the  poor  things  are 
in  great  want,  and  must  be  helped  through  with  it." 
Mr.  Bangs  did  nothing  towards  all  this ;  but  still  I 
wish  him  to  keep  some  hold  of  my  leaders'  good 
opinion,  for  was  it  not  a  great  merit  to  let  his  excel- 
lent wife  manage  as  she  liked  ? 

To  be  sure  the  farm,  and  all  the  income  ever  to 
be  derived  from  it,  wrere  made  fast,  by  will  to  his 
wife  and  her  heirs ;  but  a  man  knows  that  there  are 
one  or  two  lawyers  always  at  hand  to  pick  flaws  in 
a  will;  and  a  suit  can  be  carried  up  to  the  court  of 
errors,  and  there  brought  to  issue  in  his  favour,  al- 
though neither  law  nor  equity  is  on  his  side.  So 
Mr.  Bangs,  knowing  this,  would  not  go  to  law;  for, 
thought  he,  whether  I  should  win  or  lose,  the  whole 
would  go  to  the  lawyers ;  and  as  the  farm  wras  really 
intended,  by  the  father,  to  belong  to  her  and  hers, 
why  e'en  let  them  have  it;  but  I  must  say  it  is  hard 
that  I  can't  have  a  boy." 

In  the  course  of  time  Francis  Floss,  the  foreman 
of  the  shop,  had  a  regular  invitation  to  sit  in  their 
pew  at  church,  partake  of  their  Sunday  dinner,  and 
join  in  their  walk  after  church.  Mr.  Bangs  begged 
the  lad  of  his  father  when  he  was  of  a  suitable  age, 
for  the  laboratorv,  and  he  being  of  a  curious  and 


250  THE  BAKER'S  DOZEN. 

ingenious  turn  and  very  industrious,  came  not  only 
to  find  out  all  the  little  secrets  of  the  art,  so  tena- 
ciously withheld  from  all  eyes  by  simple  Mr.  Bangs, 
but  to  add  more  to  the  stock  of  knowledge.  He 
could  not  but  see  that  his  apprentice  had  outwitted 
him,  and  that  he  more  than  rivalled  him  in  his  art; 
but  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  get  angry  about 
it,  for  two  reasons — one  was,  that  if  he  quarrelled 
with  him,  the  young  man  wTould  leave  him  and  set  up 
for  himself — the  other  reason  was,  that  he  intended 
Francis  Floss  for  the  husband  of  his  wife's  baker's 
dozen. 

A  young  man  in  love  with  a  beautiful  girl,  with 
the  prospect  of  a  handsome  independence  with  her, 
does  not  pay  particular  attention  to  the  extent  of 
her  acquirements.  Inquisitive  as  Mr.  Floss  might 
be  in  general,  he  was  in  utter  ignorance  of  all 
things  that  concerned  the  education  of  Mr.  Bangs's 
family.  He  fell  in  love  with  Fanny,  before  he 
thought  of  her  mind  or  her  qualifications.  He  knew 
how  far  the  mind  of  Christopher  Bangs  stretched; 
but  he  had  great  reliance  that  all  was  right  at  home, 
for  every  body  allowed  that  Mrs.  Bangs  was  a  sen- 
sible, notable,  thrifty,  shrewd,  energetic,  capable 
woman,  and  he  knew  that  all  the  virtues  and  talent 
generally  come  from  the  motherly  side  of  the 
house.  Of  the  daughters  no  one  knew  any  thing, 
excepting  the  shopkeepers  and  poor  people;  the  for- 
mer thought  them  sensible  and  modest,  and  the  lat- 
ter loved  them  entirely.  All  this,  and  he  saw  that 
she  w7as  docile  and  affectionate  at  home,  was  for- 
tune enough  for  him,  as  he  was  thoroughly  in  love. 
He  made  proposals  and  was  accepted — by  all.  Mr. 
Bangs  for  once  in  his  life,  would  have  asked  the 
reason  why,  if  he  had  been  rejected.  I  think  that 
all  the  girls  loved  Frank  Floss  nearly  as  well  as 
Fanny  did. 

It  was  on  the  wedding  day,  and  preparing  the 


the  baker's  dozen.  251 

wedding  dinner,  that  the  cook  called  Mrs.  Bangs's 
attention  to  the  piece  of  brickbat  in  the  turkey's 
craw.  Four  of  her  daughters  were  assisting  like- 
wise, but  I  guess  that  they  did  not  stop  to  inquire  or 
even  look  at  the  stone.  Their  work  was  to  attend 
to  the  jellies  and  pastry — pleasant  work  for  women, 
rich  or  poor.  If  they  had  found  a  whole  brick 
in  the  craw,  all  their  care  would  be  to  see  that  the 
cook  got  it  out  without  breaking  the  skin.  But  let 
that  alone,  as  Mrs.  Bangs  says,  'tis  no  concern  of 
ours. 

The  happy  Francis  Floss  took  his  beautiful  bride 
home  to  a  handsome,  well-furnished  house ;  and 
never  was  there  a  bride  that  had  less  to  do  with 
sublunary  affairs  than  Mrs.  Bangs's  thirteenth  daugh- 
ter. For  in  the  first  place,  there  was  she — the  mo- 
ther— both  able  and  willing  to  relieve  her  darling  of 
all  the  cares  of  marketing.  There  were  Robina, 
Christina,  Josephine  and  Philippa,  by  right  of  seni- 
ority and  by  having  taught  her  to  read  and  spell — 
for  good  Hannah  French  being  very  deaf  could  not 
make  much  display  of  erudition  in  these  branches 
— and  by  making  and  mending  for  her  all  her  brief 
life,  were  they  not  fairly  entitled  to  do  the  same  kind 
offices  for  her  still,  particularly  as  she  had  now  a 
husband  who  would  require  all  her  time?  There 
were  Augusta,  Johanna,  Gabriella,  and  Georgiana, 
what  suited  them  as  well  as  to  go  from  the  garret  to 
the  cellar,  and  thence  back  again,  to  see  that  no 
dust  or  cobweb  found  a  place  there  ?  Were  there 
not  Wilhelmina,  Jacobina,  Frederica,  and  Benjami- 
na  to  fuss  about  the  pantries  and  kitchen,  and  to 
keep  the  larders  and  store  room  filled  with  the 
choicest  and  best  ? 

There  was  deaf  Hannah  French,  too,  to  see  that 
the  fire  was  carefully  raked  up  at  night ;  for  Han- 
nah, on  the  evening  of  the  wedding  day,  without 
question,  or  leave,  or  license — but  to  no  one's  sur- 


252  the  baker's  dozen. 

prise — quietly  took  her  night  things  and  her  little 
work  basket,  and  followed  the  bride  home.  She 
took  possession  of  a  snug  room  in  the  back  build- 
ing, which  room  she  kept  till  her  dying  day.  And 
there  was  Mr.  Bangs  himself;  did  he  not  every 
night,  on  his  way  home  from  his  club,  where  he 
had  spent  all  his  evenings,  excepting  Sunday,  for 
thirty  years;  did  he  not  open  the  street  door  with 
his  night-key,  walk  to  the  back  door,  bolt  that  and 
then  latch  the  inside  parlour  window-shutters?  He 
did  this  at  his  own  house,  from  the  day  of  his  mar- 
riage, for  his  wife  left  this  part  of  house-keeping 
duty  purposely  for  him,  "  to  keep  him  in  mind,"  she 
said,  "that  he  had  a  house  and  family  to  protect 
from  thieves."  Fanny  Floss  thought  it  part  of  her 
duty  to  let  her  father  do  this  for  her  likewise;  and 
her  husband  was  so  accustomed  to  all  their  ways, 
that  he  naturally  fell  into  these  agreeable  regulari- 
ties himself. 

Well,  then,  Mr.  Floss  was  a  happy  man ;  he 
went  to  the  laboratory  and  came  home  ;  went  and 
came;  went  and  came,  for  seven  years;  and  when- 
ever his  step  was  heard  in  the  hall  Fanny  ran  to 
meet  him,  to  give  him  a  kiss.  If  it  rained,  there 
was  a  dry  coat  ready  for  him;  and  if  the  day 
were  warm,  then  she  stood  in  the  hall  with  a  thin 
coat  and  a  glass  of  lemonade.  Every  evening  he 
saw  her  in  the  rocking-chair,  either  sewing  or  knit- 
ting ;  for  now  the  three  days  for  the  poor  had  grown 
to  three  times  three.  Her  good  temper  and  excel- 
lent nature  never  varied ;  she  was  the  gentlest,  the 
tenderest,  the  purest  and  the  most  devoted  wife  that 
man  was  ever  blessed  with — what  could  he  desire 
more  ?  Did  he  wish  her  altered  ?  Would  any 
man  wish  such  a  wife  to  change? 

Mr.  Floss,  as  I  observed,  had  an  inquiring  mind, 
and  he  went  on  from  one  point  to  another  until  he 
became  a  man  of  consequence ;  and,  as  Mr.  Bangs 


I  HE   BAKER'S  DOZEN'.  25.3 

predicted,  token  he  saw  his  name  up,  he  was  a  can- 
didate for  Congress.  Mrs.  Bangs  had  some  indis- 
tinct notion  that  a  Congressman  was  a  grandee; 
but  it  passed  through  her  head  like  a  dream ;  for  it 
was  only  in  her  dreams  that  her  fancy  was  ever 
excited.  Her  daughters  never  so  much  as  pon- 
dered on  the  word;  and  as  to  Fanny,  that  sweetest 
and  gentlest  of  human  beings,  it  would  have  been 
cruel  to  mention  the  thing  to  her.  Going  to  Con- 
gress  would  have  sounded  to  her  like  going  down 
a  deep  pit,  among  miners;  or  sailing  in  an  open 
boat  to  Botany  Bay.  "Don't  tell  Fanny  of  it,  my 
dear  Francis;  it  will  only  set  her  to  wondering 
and  crying,  for  she  can't  understand  it,"  said  good 
Mrs.  Bangs ;  "  but  let  that  alone,  'tis  no  concern  of 
ours." 

»So  Mr.  Floss  said  nothing  when  he  went  home; 
and,  in  the  evening,  as  Fanny  sat  in  the  rocking 
chair,  singing  an  evening  hymn,  in  a  low,  sweet 
voice,  he  looked  steadily  at  her,  for  five  minutes, 
and  watched  the  innocent  play  of  her  beautiful  mo- 
dest face,  and  gave  the  matter  up.  "  It  will  never 
do,"  said  he,  "  for  as  to  leaving  her  behind,  that  is 
out  of  the  question;  neither  of  us  could  bear  the 
separation;  and  as  to  taking  her  to  Washington — 
Good  Heavens !" 

Well  might  he  thus  exclaim  ;  for,  excepting  to 
knit,  and  sew,  and  work  muslin,  and  do  kind  little 
offices  for  the  poor,  and  love  her  father  and  mother, 
her  twelve  sisters — and,  oh,  best  of  all,  her  hus- 
band, what  else  did  Fanny  Floss  know  ? — not  an 
earthly  thing. 

It  was  some  time  after  his  marriage  before  Mr. 
Floss  found  it  all  out;  but  when  the  first  surprise 
was  over,  he  soon  got  used  to  it;  and,  after  a  few 
vain  attempts  to  enlighten  her,  he  gave  it  up,  and 
let  his  mind  flow  into  other  channels.  He  made 
friends ;  had  dinner  parties — Could  not  he  give 
y  2 


254  the  baker's  dozen. 

dinner  parties,  with  so  many  able  and  willing  co- 
adjutors ? — and  nothing  could  show  off  to  better 
advantage  than  his  beautiful,  modest  wife,  and  four 
or  live  of  her  neat,  happy  sisters,  scattered  about 
the  dinner  table. 

"What  was  it,"  you  ask,  "that  Fanny  did  not 
know  ?"  All  that  she  knew  I  have  told  you  already, 
gentle  reader.  Do  you  think  that  she  ever  so  much 
as  dreamed  that  the  earth  moved  around  the  sun  ? 
— that  mahogany  was  once  a  tree? — that  the  car- 
pet came  from  a  sheep's  back  ? — that  her  bobbinet 
lace  came  from  a  cotton  pod  ? — As  to  her  silk  dress, 
could  it  be  supposed  that  her  imagination  ever  ran 
riot  so  far  as  to  believe  that  little  worms  spun  the 
web  ?  Does  any  one  think  for  a  moment,  that  she 
knew  that  quills  were  plucked  from  the  wing  of  a 
goose? — that  paper  came  from  old  rags? — that  a 
looking-glass  was  ever  any  thing  but  the  smooth, 
polished  thing  it  now  is  ?  She  saw  loads  of  hay 
pass,  and  knew  that  horses  were  fed  with  it;  but 
she  never  speculated  on  the  manner  in  which  it 
became  hay.  It  is  a  chance  if  she  knew  that  it 
was  once  grass.  Not  that  Fanny  had  never  read 
all  this,  when  very  young,  in  her  little  books ;  but 
she  read  without  letting  any  thing  make  an  impres- 
sion. Nothing  was  a  mystery  to  her;  she  never 
made  a  doubt  of  any  thing;  but  took  things  and 
left  them  just  as  she  found  them,  either  in  books  or 
in  conversation. 

Once  her  husband  said,  "  I  wonder  whether  they 
pull  the  feathers  from  the  tail  of  the  ostrich  while 
he  is  alive?"  "Would  it  hurt  him  if  they  did  ?" 
said  Fanny.  "  Yes,  I  presume  it  would,"  replied 
he.  "  Then  they  wait  till  the  poor  thing  dies," 
quoth  she — "  only  look,  dear  husband,  see  that 
merry  little  group  of  children,  all  boys  too;  how 
my  father  would  rejoice  if  they  were  all  his  sons." 

You  will  ask  whether  Fanny  ever  took  a  walk. 


THE  DOZEff.  255 

Yes,  often  ;  her  husband  had  great  delight  in  letting 
her  hang  on  his  arm,  and  walk  up  the  long  street 
with  him.  Sometimes,  on  Sunday,  after  church, 
they  strayed  as  far  as  the  commons;  she,  pouring 
out  her  grateful  feelings  for  being  allowed  to  enjoy 
the  bright  sunshiny  day,  and  accustoming  her  hus- 
band to  dwell  on  the  Divine  source  whence  all  our 
blessings  flow.  Mr.  Floss,  himself,  had  a  hard 
bringing  up;  to  obey  his  father  and  mother;  keep 
himself  neat  and  clean;  to  bring  home  medals 
from  school,  and  to  be  honest  in  his  dealings,  were 
all  that  he  had  to  observe.  Fanny  never  dipped 
into  his  mind,  or  she  would  have  seen  how  cold  and 
barren  all  lay  there;  while,  outward,  all  was  so  fair. 
She  thought  that  every  one's  heart — but  no — Fanny 
never  speculated  on  any  thing;  she  talked  to  her 
husband  as  if  his  heart  was  of  the  same  mould  as 
hers.  He  dipped  into  her  mind  though ;  and  the 
purity  and  excellence  of  it  more  than  compensated 
for  her  want  of  worldly  knowledge.  So  all  the 
way  from  church  he  listened  to  the  outpourings  of 
her  spirit ;  always  fresh  and  animated,  and  clothed 
in  a  language  peculiar  to  herself;  for  Fanny  knew 
nothing  of  the  forms  and  phrases  in  which  bigots 
disguise  the  truth. 

Her  husband,  therefore,  listened  and  loved  ;  nnd, 
at  length,  he  loved  the  subject;  so  that  her  very 
simplicity  was  the  means  of  his  becoming  a  reli- 
gious man.  "  To  meet  you  in  Heaven,  my  Fanny," 
he  said,  one  day,  "  I  must  strive  to  think  on  these 
subjects  as  you  do.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  found 
worthy  to  join  you  there." 

'  "  But  you  do  think  as  I  do,  love,"  said  she,  look- 
ing affrighted — "you  do — and  you  think  more  than 
I  do;  you  can  argue  better.  I  never  think  at  all;  all 
my  feelings  come  naturally.  You  will  go  to  hea- 
ven, my  Francis,  for  the  prayers  of  the  humble 
and  penitent  are  heard;  and  is  there  a  night,  nay 


256  the  baker's  dozen. 

an  hour  in  the  day,  that  my  spirit  is  not  lifted  up  to 
ask  for  forgiveness  for  you  and  for  us  all  V 

"You  are  so  merry  and  cheerful,  my  dear  Fanny, 
that  one  would  not  suppose  you  were  in  prayer  so 
constantly." 

"Well,  Francis,  and  is  not  that  the  time  to  pray? 
— why  must  God  be  addressed  only  in  darkness,  and 
when  we  are  ill  and  sad  ?  Then  we  pray*through 
fear  and  selfishness.  It  is  when  I  am  happy  and 
merry  that  I  am  most  afraid  of  committing  sin ;  and 
it  is  then,  too,  that  I  feel  God's  goodness  and  mercy 
most.  Dear  Francis,  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  feel 
this  bright,  warm  sun  shine  on  our  face ;  and  see, 
that  little  dog  barks  in  very  gladness,  too,  for  I  see 
nothing  near  it  to  make  it  bark.  He  feels  the 
warmth  and  it  gives,  him  pleasure  ;  but  he  forgets 
it,  you  see,  and  falls  to  quarrelling  with  that  little 
black  dog,  for  the  bone.  God  is  ever  present  to  me, 
my  husband,  and  that  keeps  me  merry  and  cheer- 
ful. I  am  sure  I  have  no  wish  to  quarrel  for  any 
thing." 

"  I  believe  it,  Fanny,"  said  her  husband,  as  he 
pressed  her  arm  closely  to  his  heart;  "and  I  will 
let  this  thought  sink  deep,  that  I  may  in  time  come 
to  be  merry  and  cheerful  in  your  way." 

And  then  they  wTould  walk  on  till  they  reached 
the  commons,  where  they  were  sure  to  meet  some 
of  the  family;  and  there  talk  over  the  subjects  of 
the  sermon — when  they  could  understand  it,  which 
wTas  not  very  often  the  case.  The  exposition  of  a 
doubtful  text  never  m.'.de  any  thing  the  clearer  to 
these  simple  minded  people.  They  had  the  Scrip- 
tures, and  they  believed  in  the  holy  book  most  sin- 
cerely; nothing  wras  a  mystery  to  them;  they 
thought  that  the  words  and  actions  of  our  blessed 
Saviour  were  easy  enough  to  comprehend;  and 
that  they  were  all-sufficient  to  our  salvation.  They 
could  not  imagine  why  clergymen  darkened  up  a 


the  baker's  dozen.  257 

point  by  hard  words  and  cramped  unintelligible 
terms  and  phrases,  when  the  meaning  was  so  clear 
to  them.  As  to  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity — even 
Fanny,  the  least  gifted,  as  to  acuteness  of  intellect 
— even  she  could  believe  all  and  adore;  for  a  tree, 
the  sun,  moon  and  stars,  a  living,  moving  being, 
and,  above  all,  that  perpetual  spring  of  love  which 
she  felt  within  her  towards  the  Almighty,  towards 
her  family,  and  towards  her  husband — all  this  was 
quite  as  incomprehensible  to  her  as  what  her  reli- 
gion enjoined  on  her  to  believe.  So  that  Fanny 
never  speculated  even  on  this  subject. 

Mr.  Bangs  felt  nothing  of  all  this ;  and  his  Sun- 
day walk  was  to  the  shipyards  or  arsenal;  and  his 
Sunday  talk,  scanty  enough,  was  of  laying  that  that 
are  ship  would  outsail  the  other;  and  that  that  are 
cannon  would  do  for  the  English.  He  never  would 
walk  with  his  daughters,  because  they  were  not 
boys;  and  he  always  wound  up  by  saying,  "  Time 
enough  to  walk  out  with  you  when  Fanny  gives  me 
a  grandson ;  there  will  be  some  sense  in  my  going 
then." 

But  Mr.  Bangs  was  doomed  to  disappointment; 
for  the  little  boy  did  not  come ;  nor  was  there  any 
sister  to  put  his  nose  out  of  joint ;  yet  Mr.  Floss 
did  not  grieve,  for  Fanny  was  pet  enough  for  him. 
When  he  was  tired  out  with  business,  and  did  not 
want  to  take  up  a  book,  she  would  talk  over  her 
thoughts  and  feelings.  Heavens  !  what  a  gush  of 
tenderness  and  pathos  it  was;  and  how  the  young 
man's  soul  melted  away  in  him  as  she  talked — and 
yet,  what  could  it  be  about? 

You  will  ask,  perhaps,  if  Fanny  ever  read.  Not 
much.  When  a  child,  and  learning  to  read,  she  had 
little  story-books  of  good  and  naughty  boys  and 
girls,  which  she  read  over  and  over  again — wept 
over  often — but  sensible  Mrs.  Bangs  saw  no  use  in 
all  this,  and  she  therefore  seldom  opened  her  polish- 


258  the  baker's  dozex. 

ed,  mahogany  book-case.  Fanny  loved  poetry, 
tender,  pathetic  poetry ;  but  as  she  selected  only 
such,  and  as  it  always  set  her  crying  and  sobbing, 
why,  poetry  was  interdicted  too.  Mrs.  Bangs  gave 
her  son  several  hints  on  this  point;  a  thing  which 
he  soon  found  out  of  himself,  as  Fanny  was  made 
perfectly  unhappy  for  a  whole  week  alter  he  had 
read  Keats's  Isabella  to  her.  JShc  had  the  most 
tender  love  for  a  virtuous  and  beautiful  heroine; 
the  mishaps  and  death,  therefore,  which  overtook 
her,  were  taken  to  heart  with  such  earnest  grief 
that  Mr.  Floss,  after  that,  wisely,  read  all  such 
things  to  himself.  In  fact,  it  soon  amounted  to  this, 
that  he  never  read  aloud  at  all ;  for  works  of  wit 
and  fancy  were  lost  on  his  gentle  wife — a  repartee 
she  thought  must  cost  somebody  pain,  and  that 
brought  no  pleasure  to  her. 

While  her  husband  read  in  the  long  winter  even- 
ings, she  sat  in  her  rocking-chair  and  knitted  or 
sewed  ;  and  had  many  little  pleasant  chats  with  one 
or  the  other  of  her  sisters  or  her  mother — Fanny 
was  never  alone.  Let  us  listen  to  what  she  is  say- 
ing to  Robina  ;  raising  her  voice  to  its  highest  pitch, 
that  poor  Hannah  French,  who  now  and  then  made 
one  of  the  evening  party,  might  feel  that  she  was 
considered  as  one  of  the  family. 

"  Oh,  Robina,  dear,  what  a  delightful  walk  we 
had.  I  just  went  up  to  the  laboratory  with  Gabriella, 
to  say  how  do  you  do  to  my  dear  husband,  when, 
there  he  stood,  ready  for  a  walk,  (here  Mr.  Floss 
laid  down  his  book  to  listen  too)  so  up  the  road  we 
went;  and  the  warm  sunshine,  and  the  brisk  winds 
seemed  to  be  playing  with  each  other,  and  gambol- 
ling, as  it  were,  before  us.  We  both  felt  grateful 
that  we  did  not  meet  a  single  beggar  or  a  discon- 
tented face.  So  we  walked  around  our  own  divi- 
sion and  inquired  of  the  widows  how  they  were 
getting  on ;  and  their  glad  looks,  when  they  saw 


the  baker's  dozen.  259 

my  husband" — "  It  was  you,  Fanny,"  said  he,  in- 
terrupting her,  "  I  am  certain  it  was  your  sweet 
face,  and  not  my  hard,  sunburnt  one,  that  made 
them  brighten  up  so." 

"Hannah  French,  has  my  husband  a  hard,  sun- 
burnt face?"  said  Fanny,  raising  her  voice  very 
loud — for  she  knew  how  very  handsome  poor 
Hannah  thought  he  was. 

"  Sunburnt !"  exclaimed  Hannah, — "  no,  indeed 
— sometimes  I  have  seen  it  smutted  with  the  stuff 
which  he  is  cooking  over  the  great  pots  in  his  fur- 
nace; but  he  is  not  sunburnt — he  is  fireburnt." 

"  There,"  said  Mr.  Floss,  laughing,  "  you  will  not 
appeal  to  Hannah  French  again  about  my  beauty 
— but  go  on,  dearest;  tell  Gabriella  all  about  your 
walk.  I  should  really  be  glad  to  know,  too,  for 
although  I  was  with  you,  yet  my  mind  was  so  oc- 
cupied with  what  I  had  been  cooking,  as  Hannah 
calls  it,  in  that  great  pot,  that  I  just  followed  where 
you  led ;  and  yet  I  was  sensible,  all  the  time,  of 
what  you  were  saying.  Her  voice,  Gabrielle,  is 
always  so  musical  that  I  feel  its  influence  even 
when  the  sound  only  makes  an  impression." 

"  So  mother  always  said,"  answered  the  modest 
Gabriella.  "  Fanny  never  hurt  her  sweet  voice  by 
crying  or  getting  in  a  passion,  as  some  of  us  did 
when  we  were  children." 

Well,  Fanny  was  not  elated  by  all  this  fond 
praise  ;  she  felt  that  it  was  love  which  had  dictated 
if,  and  it  came  over  her  gentle  nature  like  a  sun- 
beam, where  all  was  mild  and  gracious  before;  she 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  her  husband's  arm  and  pro- 
ceeded. 

"All  this  took  up  half  an  hour;  and,  cool  as  the 
weather  was,  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  much 
of  summer  still  remained  ;  for  almost  every  win- 
dow had  rosebushes  and  geraniums  in  it,  and  our 
widows'  row  looked  like  one  long  green-house;  for 


260  the  iukur's  dozen*. 

every  window,  there  too,  had  a  rosebush,  full  of 
roses,  in  it.  And  that  lemon  tree  belonging  to  Mrs. 
Green — did  I  tell  you,  Hannah,  that  I  bought  you 
that  fine,  large  lemon  tree  1  Poor  Mrs.  Green 
hated  to  part  with  it;  but  it  was  too  large  for  her 
room.  It  has  ten  large,  ripe  lemons  on  it ;  and 
ever  so  many  blossoms." 

For  fear  of  a  mistake,  Hannah  feigned  a  little 
more  of  deafness  than  belonged  to  her;  but  to  have 
her  hopes  destroyed  by  misapprehension  was  pain- 
ful ;  for,  of  all  things,  she  coveted  a  lemon  tree, 
she  so  loved  the  smell  of  its  delicate  white  blos- 
soms. 

Fanny  repeated  it  loud  enough  to  bring  convic- 
tion to  poor  Hannah ;  and  in  a  few  moments  the 
ten  lemons  were  appropriated  to  more  uses  than 
one  hundred  could  satisfy.  Custard !  oh,  how  much 
superior  was  a  boiled  custard,  with  the  gratings  of 
a.  fresh  lemon;  and  many  a  glass  of  jelly  did  she 
fancy  herself  making  with  the  sprightly  well  ripened 
juice;  so  much  sprightlier,  and  having  so  much 
more  of  a  fperfume  with  it,  than  the  stale,  unripe 
lemons  of  the  shop — oh,  how  Hannah  French,  at 
that  moment,  despised  the  shop  lemons.  And  then 
to  surprise  Mr.  Floss  with  the  half  of  a  fine,  w*ell 
rolled,  plump,  ripe  lemon  on  Sunday,  to  eat  with 
his  fish  or  cutlet — on  Sunday,  when  none  could  be 
bought — and  Hannah  laughed  out  in  very  happi- 
ness. The  deaf  have  many  pleasant,  innocent, 
fancies. 

I  hope,  gentle  reader,  you  do  not  think  that 
Fanny  was  an  insipid  kind  of  person.  Oh,  if  you 
could  but  know  how  much  of  beauty  and  loveli- 
ness there  is  in  a  nature  wherein  truth  dwells  con- 
stantly, you  would  covet  to  be  like  my  Fanny. 
Yet,  although  she  never  read  any  thing  but  the 
Bible,  or  some  good  little  pattern  book,  now  and 
then, — although  she  only  visited  the  poor  and  com- 


the  baker's  dozev.  261 

fortless,  and  knew  nothing  of  a  theatre,  yet  her 
conversation  was  full  of  life;  and,  I  might  say, 
poetry.  Her  soul  was  in  such  harmony  with  all 
God's  works;  and  there  was  such  melody  in  her 
accents,  and  such  eloquence  in  her  eye  and  her 
smile — such  devotion  to  those  she  loved,  that  no 
one  ever  dreamed  that  she  was  an  ignoramus. 

Mr.  Floss,  as  I  before  observed,  after  the  first 
surprise  was  over,  doubted  whether  a  woman  more 
learned  would  have  made  him  half  so  happy.  He 
saw  that  other  men  did  not  care  twopence  for 
their  wives'  sense  or  reading,  after  a  month  or  so. 
Very  few,  he  observed,  talked  out  of  book  to  their 
family,  or  seemed  particularly  pleased  to  hear  that 
their  wives  were  reading  women. 

As  to  sights — no  one  ever  thought  of  taking  so 
refined  and  delicate  a  creature  as  Fanny  to  see 
them ;  particularly  such  as  the  Siamese  twins,  or 
fat  children,  or  the  wild  beasts  in  their  closely  con- 
fined, stifled  menageries.  She  certainly  knew  that 
there  were  wild  beasts ;  for  well  she  remembered 
how  often  she  had  cried  over  the  story,  in  a  little 
gilt  covered  book,  of  the  boy  who  went  too  near 
the  lion,  and  had  his  head  struck  off.  But  Fanny, 
as  she  grew  up,  was  not  allowed  to  suffer  her  mind 
to  dwell  on  such  things;  her  judicious  mother  said 
there  was  too  much  of  real  life  business  to  occupy 
her  without  crying  over  little  boys  that  had  their 
heads  chopped  off  by  wild  beasts ;  and,  another 
thing,  she  did  not  believe  a  word  of  the  story — 
"  But,  let  that  alone,"  said  she,  "  Fanny  dear,  'tis 
no  concern  of  ours." 

But,  although  Fanny's  thoughts  and  actions 
were  full  of  piety,  yet  there  was  nothing  mawkish, 
or  canting,  or  tiresome,  in  her  way  of  talking  about 
it.  She  made  even  the  poor  themselves  feel  cheer- 
ful by  her  pleasant  ways.  It  was  not  in  her  nature 
to  exact  any  thing  of  them  in  return  for  what  she 

z 


2&2  the  baker's  dozen. 

did;  nor  did  she  pry  into  the  little  unhappy  affairs 
which  had  contributed  to  bring  them  to  poverty. 
It  is  only  the  callous  heart  that  does  this;  only 
those  who  wish  to  make  themselves  conspicuous 
who  ferret  out  the  little  miserable  secrets  of  the 
poor. 

At  length,  on  Christmas  day,  the  little  boy  was 
born;  his  mother's  birth-day  likewise;  and  it  seem- 
ed as  if  Mr.  Bangs  had  never  lived  till  that  moment. 
He  was  sitting  in  a  very  nervous,  dogged,  defying* 
sort  of  way,  by  himself,  in  the  front  parlour,  before 
a  large  fire,  having  some  anxiety  about  his  daugh- 
ter, but  a  greater  sympathy  for  himself  and  his 
thirteen  disappointments,  when  Mrs.  Bangs  entered 
the  room.  He  turned  slowly  around  and  stared  at 
her  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  as  she  announced 
that  Fanny  was  safely  through  her  trouble  ;  and 
that  Mr.  Floss  was  too  happy  to  do  more  than  cry 
like  a  child. 

Mr.  Bangs  was  speechless,  while  his  wife  expa- 
tiated on  Fanny's  fortitude,  and  her  anxiety  to  pre- 
vent her  mother  from  knowing  what  her  sufferings 
were.  Still  Mrs.  Bangs  did  not  hear  the  sound  of 
thanksgiving  from  his  lips.  She  little  dreamed  that 
the  foolish  old  man's  head  was  running  on  the  sex 
of  the  child. 

"  And — and — wife,"  said  he  at  last,  "  it  is  a  girl, 
I  presume ;  nothing  but  girls  in  this  life,"  said  he, 
as  he  jerked  himself  around  and  stared  at  the  fire. 
"  I  hope  I  shall  be  rewarded  in  the  other  world,  by 
having  some  of  my  girls  turned  to  boys." 

"  Why,  Christopher,  did  I  not  tell  you  that  the 
dear  chubby  little  thing  was  a  boy?" 

"  A  boy  !"  exclaimed  he,  jumping  on  his  feet,  his 
face  flushed  with  agitation,  "  a  boy — a  boy — now, 
Molly  Bangs,  are  you  sure? — take  care — remem- 
ber, a  man  can't  bear  disappointments  for  ever — 
I've  had  thirteen,  remember." 


the  baker's  dozex.  263 

"  Am  I  sure — certainly  I  am  ;  and  a  sweet,  dear, 
blessed,  chubby  little  thing  it  is  ;  one  roll  of  fat  and 
good  nature ;  and  the  very  picture  of  you ;  but  let 
that  alone,  'tis  no  concern  of  ours,  just  now;  but  I 
hope  that  you  are  suited  at  last." 

Mr.  Bangs  could  not  speak  ;  but  he  untied  his 
cravat,  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  face, 
while  his  wife  stood  looking  at  him  with  amaze- 
ment. 

"Why,  Christopher — Kit,  what  ails  you?"  said 
she,  really  frightened  at  this  extraoi'dinary  display 
of  animation — "  is  it  possible  that  a  boy  sat  so  close 
to  your  heart?  and  have  you  borne  your  thirteen 
disappointments  so  long,  and  so  well?  I  really  give 
you  credit  for  not  showing  a  great  deal  of  ugly 
temper;  and  now  I  trust  that  this  dear,  little,  chubby 
fellow  will  make  amends." 

"  It  will,  Molly,  it  will :  and  I  heartily  forgive 
you  for  giving  me  thirteen  girls.  How  soon  will 
little  Christopher  walk?  Hang  it  all;  but  he  shall 
have  a  hobby-horse  as  soon  as  he  can  call  me 
grandpapa.  And  you  must  dress  him  in  his  best 
when  I  walk  out  with  him.  I'll  take  him  to  our 
club,  some  warm  evening.  I'll  not  let  a  servant 
touch  him,  to  get  his  back  broke,  but  will  carry  him 
myself." 

"Heaven  help  him,"  thought  his  wife,  as  she 
slowly  walked  up  stairs,  "  he  is  growing  foolish." 

But  Mr.  Bangs !  He  went  to  the  glass  and  said, 
"  Grandpa,  grandpa,"  as  if  a  child  was  calling  him 
— then  he  whistled  and  laughed.  "Who  is  that," 
said  he,  as  one  of  his  daughters  entered  the  room. 
"Is  that  you,  Fillippi?"  "No,  father,  it  is  Georgi- 
ana;  how  glad  you  must  be,  father,  to  hear  that 
dear  Fanny  is  so  well." 

"Yes,  child,  yes.  Does  the  little  fellow  grow  ? 
But  don't  call  him  Kit ;  it  is  too  feminine.  Call  him 
oat,  boldly,  Christopher :"  and  the  enraptured,  fool- 


264  the  baker's  dozen. 

ish  man  made  an  attempt  to  chassee  across  the 
room,  to  the  no  small  amazement  of  his  daughter. 
"I  must  tell  mother,"  said  she,  "his  joy  is  making 
him  lose  his  wits." 

Mr.  Bangs,  in  due  time,  was  asked  up  to  Fanny's 
room,  into  which  he  walked  on  tiptoe,  giggling. 
But  when  he  got  a  glimpse  of  the  baby,  his  cheek 
was  flushed,  and  his  lip  quivered.  It  seemed  as  if 
all  the  feelings  of  a  father  had  been  pent  up  till  that 
moment ;  for  when  the  nurse  put  the  little  boy  in 
his  arms,  he  tenderly  kissed  it,  and,  "  lifting  up  his 
face,  he  wept  aloud." 

Mr.  Floss  was  kneeling  by  his  wife,  and  blessing 
her  every  moment  between  his  grateful  prayers ; 
this  sudden  burst  therefore  of  the  old  man  was  not 
surprising,  but  it  was  to  his  wife.  As  to  Hannah 
French,  she  laughed  so  loud  at  the  oddity  of  it,  that 
Mrs.  Bangs  fearing  that  their  hubbub  would  be  in- 
jurious to  her  daughter,  made  them  both  go  out  of 
the  room;  but  Hannah  French  laughed  by  snatches 
for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

"  Adieu  to  business  and  to  clubs  now.  The  boy 
has  been  so  long  coming,"  said  he  to  his  wife,  "  and 
no  thanks  to  you,  that  I  shall  make  myself  amends 
for  my  thirteen  disappointments,  and  having  to  wait 
seven  years  too,  in  the  bargain." 

So  he  staid  nearly  all  the  time  in  the  nursery,  and 
waited  for  the  development  of  growth  and  intellect 
with  the  most  intense  and  feverish  anxiety.  Every 
day  he  pulled  the  little  fellow's  mouth  open  to  look 
for  a  tooth,  and  when  it  came  at  last,  which  it  did 
at  the  end  of  six  months,  he  tore  himself  from  the 
pleasure  of  looking  at  it,  to  rush  out  among  his  old 
friends  to  make  them  as  happy  as  himself. 

The  first  that  he  saw  was  one  of  his  club  com- 
panions, for  he  consorted  with  no  others.  This 
person  was  just  coming  up  the  street  from  the 
river. 


THE   BAKER'S  DOZEN".  265 

"Good  morning,  neighbour  Bangs,"  said  he, 
"  have  you  seen  the  steamboat  Sea  Serpent?  She 
has  just  come  in — twenty  miles  in  one  hour!" 

"  My  Christopher  has  a  tooth,"  roared  Mr.  Bangs, 
for  his  old  friend  was  a  little  deaf. 

"  She  is  expected  to  go  even  fnster  when  her 
boiler  is  a  little  larger,"  said  the  club  man,  Peter 
Broo,  by  name. 

"  You  never  saw  a  finer  tooth.  It  is  a  thundering 
large  one.  He  bit  my  little  finger — here,  just  put 
your  thumb  in  my  mouth,  and  I'll  show  you  how 
the  little  rogue  tried  to  bile." 

"  Yes;  but  you  had  better  take  a  look  at  the  boat, 
for  it  will  be  off  again  in  an  hour." 

"  'Tis  a  thundering  big  tooth,  and  I  thought  I 
would  just  stop  and  tell  you;  and  the  other  will  be 
out  to-morrow  at  farthest.  Good  morning,  I  must 
go  and  tell  the  good  news  to  the  captain,  for  every 
body  is  glad  to  hear  that  the  first  tooth  comes 
through  without  fits." 

His  club  mate,  not  a  whit  more  gifted  than  him- 
self, stared  at  Mr.  Bangs,  as  in  very  boyishness  of 
heart  he  hopped  off  first  on  one  foot,  and  then  on 
the  other,  as  children  do.  He  wondered  how  a 
baby's  tooth  should  prevent  any  one  from  going  to 
the  wharf  to  see  the  famous  steamboat  Sea  Serpent. 
"If  the  old  goose  thought  he  had  a  thundering  big 
tooth  coming  through  his  own  gums  I  should  not 
wonder  at  it — but  a  baby's  tooth  !  as  if  they  did  not 
get  teeth  every  day — there,  he  has  met  the  captain; 
he'll  smoke  him  with  his  baby  tooth.  I  will  go  look 
at  the  steamboat  Sea  Serpent  again. 

"  Hillo  !  captain,  stop,  will  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Bangs ; 
"  we  have  a  tooth,  and  a  thundering  large  white 
tooth  it  is." 

"  What!  your  little  grand-daughter  has  a  tooth  at 
last — well,  it  has  been  long  a  coming;  is  it  up  or 
down?" 

z  2 


266  the  baker's  dozen. 

For  thirty-seven  years  Mr.  Bangs  had  had  evening 
intercourse  with  captain  Muff,  and  till  this  morn- 
ing he  had  never  found  out  that  he  was  a  fool;  and 
what  was  worse,  as  he  said  to  himself,  an  old  fool. 
Indignation  kept  him  silent — forgot  that  he  had  a 
grandson  when  he  had  talked  of  it  for  six  months! 
At  length  he  burst  out. 

"  I  presume  it  would  make  no  difference  to 
you,  captain  Muff,"  said  he,  grinning  hysterically, 
"  if  I  had  thirteen  more  daughters?" 

••No,  why  should  it?"  rejoined  the  sage  captain,  "I 
like  girls.  If  mv  wife  and  your  wife  had  not  been 
girls  when  they  were  babies,  I  wonder  where  our 
wives  would  have  been  ?  You  may  be  glad  your 
little  grandchild  is  a  girl." 

"  Why,  what  a  good  for  nothing  old  fat  fool  you 
are — that  I  must  call  you  names  in  your  old  age," 
said  the  enraged  Christopher.  "  Your  memory  is 
very  short  this  morning ;  have  I  not  told  you  that 
my  Christopher  is  a  boy  ?" 

"  No,  I  cannot  forget  what  you  tell  me  every 
day ;  but  what  has  a  boy  to  do  with  what  you  were 
telling  me  about  a  thundering  large  tooth.  Does 
she  grow  ?" 

"  You  are  enough  to  make  a  man  swear,  you 
damned  old  goose,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  in  a  huff — (too 
mad  to  pop  off  this  time,)  "  to  call  Christopher  she : 
man  and  boy,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  turned 
sulkily  away,  "  have  I  known  captain  Muff  for  sixty 
years,  and  I  have  but  just  found  out  what  a  disad- 
vantage he  has  been  to  me^  why  he  is  but  half 
witted." 

Mr.  Bangs  turned  homewards,  fearing  to  find  out 
more  foolish  old  men  among  his  club.  He  was 
anxious  too,  to  see  whether  the  other  tooth  had  not 
got  the  start  of  him.  The  quiet,  regular  Mr.  Bangs 
had  become  a  nuisance.  No  one  had  ever  suspected 
him  of  being  soft,  and  but  for  this  unlucky  male 


the  baker's  dozen.  267 

child  he  might  have  "  died  as  he  lived,  an  excel- 
lent chemist,  an  honest  man,  and  one  of  the  best 
husbands  in  the  world ;"  but  if  a  weak  man  will 
talk,  people  will  find  him  out. 

He  passed  away  very  easy,  not  long  after  this, 
just  in  time  to  save  his  credit,  so  that  no  one  but 
Peter  Broo  and  captain  Muff  gave  a  ha,  ha,  or  a 
smile  when  his  death  was  announced.  The  baby's 
tooth  stood  for  ever  uppermost  in  their  eyes;  and 
when  they  told  the  story,  which  they  did  every  day 
for  a  twelvemonth,  they  got  the  thundering  big 
tooth  to  the  size  of  an  elephant's. 

He  was  missed  at  home,  particularly  when  the 
window  shutters  were  to  be  latched,  which  office 
Hannah  French  now  undertook,  and  the  first  sound 
of  mirth  that  was  heard  in  the  house  was  from  her. 
The  baby's  teeth  all  carne  out  finely;  and  one  day 
as  she  put  on  her  spectacles  to  look  at  them,  she 
gave  one  of  her  little  deaf  laughs.  Mrs.  Bangs 
asked  her  what  she  laughed  at,  but  Hannah  French 
was  too  "  cute"  to  tell.  It  was  what  follows  that 
passed  through  her  brain  and  produced  the  laugh  at 
the  end  of  it. 

"  I  am  glad,"  thought  she,  "  the  old  man  went  off 
as  he  did,  for  the  baby's  mouth  would  have  gone 
from  ear  to  ear,  by  his  grandfather's  constantly 
pulling  it  open  to  see  what  thundering  big  tooth  was 
coming  out  next ;  and  the  baby  was  so  used  to  have 
his  mouth  stretched  open,  that  whenever  he  heard 
his  grandfather's  voice  on  the  stairs,  he  used,  of  his 
own  accord,  to  throw  his  head  back  and  open  his 
mouth  as  wide  as  possible."  Then  it  was,  as  this 
passed  through  her  mind,  that  Hannah  French 
laughed;  but  it  would  not  have  done  to  tell  Mrs. 
Bangs  of  it. 

Every  one  of  Mrs.  Bangs's  thirteen  daughters 
married,  and  everyone  had  sons  and  daughters.  I 
have  something  pleasant  to  say  of  all  of  them, 
though  not  so  much  as  I  have  said  of  Fanny.     She 


268  the  baker's  doze.v. 

lives  still,  and  is  loved  by  her  husband  and  family 
as  dearly  as  ever. 

Mrs.  Bangs  would  not  have  one  of  her  grandsons 
called  Christopher,  through  fear  of  their  hating  her 
as  they  grew  up.  "  I  had  such  a  deal  of  trouble 
about  naming  you  all,"  said  she,  to  her  thirteen 
daughters,  "  that  I  am  resolved  my  grandchildren 
shall  not  be  named  after  kit  or  kin  of  mine."  Whe- 
ther she  meant  this  as  a  pun,  or  only  as  an  old  saw, 
I  do  not  know;  I  should  rather  suspect  the  latter; 
but  we  will  let  that  alone,  'tis  no  concern  of  ours. 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 


Martin  Barton,  a  respectable,  well  looking  lad, 
entered  Mr.  Daly's  thread  and  needle  store  at  the 
age  of  fourteen.  He  was  a  faultless  and  enduring 
creature,  always  at  his  post,  and  serving  out 
his  appointed  time — seven  years — without  giving 
his  master  the  least  cause  of  complaint.  The  morn- 
ing of  his  birthday  was  his  day  of  freedom,  and. 
although  Mr.  Daly  knew  that  this  day  must  come 
some  time  or  other,  yet  he  was  quite  unprepared 
for  it.  Great,  therefore,  would  have  been  his  sor- 
row, if  Martin  Barton  had  not,  in  announcing  that 
his  apprenticeship  was  expired,  asked  his  consent 
to  marry  Miss  Letty  Daly — his  only  child. 

Now  Mr.  Daly  had  not  the  least  suspicion  that 
Martin  Barton  had  a  fancy  for  his  daughter,  for  he 
had  always  considered  him  as  a  young  man  that 
had  no  fancy  for  any  thing  outside  the  counter. 
Even  Mrs.  Daly,  as  sharp-eyed  as  one  of  her 
needles,  heard  the  news  pretty  much  as  he  had 
done — sorrow  that  Martin  Barton's  time  was  up, 
and  surprise  that  he  wanted  to  marry  their  daugh- 
ter. 

"Martin  Barton  in  love  with  our  Letty ! — it  can- 
not be,  Mr.  Daly,  for  to  my  knowledge  he  has 
never  spent  an  evening  with  her  in  his  life." 


270  THE   THREAD  AND    NEEDLE  STORE. 

"I  did  not  say  lie  was  in  love  with  her,  Mrs.  Daly, 
I  only  said  he  wanted  our  consent  to  marry  her — 
so,  wife,  if  you  have  no  objection,  I  may  as  well  let 
them  marry  at  once;  business  is  a  little  slack  just 
at  present,  and  he  can  be  spared  better  now  than 
in  the  spring." 

"Why,  to  be  sure,  husband,  Martin  Barton  is 
worth  his  weight  in  gold  in  such  a  shop  as  ours, 
and  no  one  could  supply  his  place  if  he  were  to 
leave  us ;  so  I'll  just  step  back  and  tell  Letty — oh, 
here  she  comes — Letty,  my  dear,  Martin  Barton's 
time  is  up,  he  is  twenty-one  this  morning,  and  he 
told  your  father,  and  your  father  t <  >ld  me,  that  he 
wants  to  have  you  for  a  wife." 

"Yes,  so  Martin  Barton  told  me  himself,"  said 
Miss  Letty,  a  fine  tempered  girl  of  eighteen,  and  as 
brisk  as  a  bee. 

"  Oh,  then  he  has  spoken  to  you  himself,  has  he? 
When  did  you  see  him  1  Not  this  morning  after 
church,  I  guess,  for  I  saw  him  turn  the  corner  with 
Ira  Elkado,  and  I  saw  him  come  back  with  old 
Hosea  Bringle  around  the  very  same  corner." 

"  We  talked  the  matter  over  after  church  about 
a  month  ago;  indeed  we  have  done  all  our  court- 
ing in  that  way  while  coming  home  after  church, 
for  Martin  Barton  has  no  time  to  court  on  week 
days,  you  know." 

"No  more  he  has  not,"  said  the  satisfied  mother, 
"  so,  husband,  all  we  have  to  do  now  is  to  get  them 
married  and  pass  the  shop  over  to  Martin  Barton. 
You  and  I  are  tired  of  all  this  hard  work,  so  we 
will  go  to  our  little  farm  in  the  country  and  live  at 
our  ease."     Live  at  their  ease! ! 

Martin  Barton  expected  as  much,  and  so  did 
Miss  Letty;  they  were  married  the  following 
week,  and  before  another  week  had  expired  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Daly  bade  adieu  to  the  thread  and  needle 
store,  and  went  into  the  country  to  live  at  their 
ease ! 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  271 

Hosea  Bringle,  with  whom  Martin  Barton 
had  gone  round  the  corner,  was  the  book  keeper 
as  long  as  goods  were  sold  on  credit,  but  as 
soon  as  it  was  determined  to  sell  for  cash  alone, 
the  old  man's  occupation  was  gone.  He  was 
transferred  to  the  lower  end  of  the  counter— but, 
alas  !  Hosea  Bringle  was  found  to  be  a  poor  vender 
of  tape  and  bobbin.  It  did  well  enough  when  it 
came  to  a  dozen  of  stockings  or  socks,  but  he  never 
could  tell  which  thread  of  yarn  was  thick  or  which 
thin,  and  above  all  he  could  not  tell  linen  tape  from 
cotton  tape.  It  was  plain,  therefore,  that  Hosea 
Bringle  had  to  go. 

Sigismund  Sloper  had  entered  the  shop  at  the 
same  time  with  Martin  Barton,  but  although  he  was 
a  decent  lad  enough,  and  had  been  a  year  out  of 
his  time,  for  he  was  fiifteen  when  he  began  his 
service,  yet  Mr.  Daly  had  no  great  partiality  for 
him.  He  continued  on,  therefore,  at  good  wages, 
till  the  present  time,  when  little  Jenny  Hart  spoke 
up  and  said  that  Sigismund  Sloper  was  not  wanted 
any  longer,  as  she  had  heard  of  an  excellent  lad  of 
the  right  age  who  would  work  better  and  cheaper. 

Now  Jenny  Hart  was  the  oracle  of  the  shop; 
she  likewise  had  been  in  Mr.  Daly's  employ  for  a 
term  of  years — three,  I  believe — but  it  was  a  far 
different  thing  to  see  her  move  about  and  direct 
every  thing  that  was  done,  than  when  the  clerks  or 
Martin  Barton  did  it.  Clean  and  neat,  too,  was 
little  Jenny  Hart,  quick  at  meals  and  quick  at 
work,  an  early  riser  and  a  late  sitter  up ;  and  such 
a  tongue  as  she  had,  such  a  spirit  as  she  showed, 
such  a  goer  and  comer  !  In  short,  little  Jenny  Hart 
was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  establishment,  and 
money  came  in  so  fast  that  the  money  drawers  had 
to  be  emptied  every  night — no  credit — happy 
thread  and  needle  people  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin Barton. 

Sigismund  Sloper  vowed  vengeance  against  little 


272  THE  THREAD  AXD  XEEDLE  STORE. 

Jenny  Hart;  for  she  was  a  free  spoken  little  thing, 
and  made  no  scruple  of  speaking  out  her  thoughts. 
He  was  too  slow  and  too  tardy  of  speech  for  such 
off  hand  business  as  theirs,  and  was  too  mulish  to 
learn,  so  she  fairly  told  him  that  on  the  first  of 
May — three  months  ahead — Ira  Elkado  was  to 
take  his  place.  She  cast  many  an  anxious  glance  at 
old  Hosea  Bringle,  wishing  him  out  of  the  concern^ 
too,  for  he  was  very  much  in  her  way,  and  it  was 
really  hard  upon  her,  for  thus  it  went  all  day,  week 
in  and  week  out:  "  It  is  three  cents  a  yard,  Hojer 
Bringle — (she  always  called  him  Hojer) — this  way, 
miss,  that  old  gentleman  does  not  know  our  private 
mark,  and  yet  he  has  lived  in  this  shop  seven 
years."  The  old  man  sighed,  and  little  Jenny  Hurt 
heard  him.  "  To  be  sure  there  is  an  excuse  for 
him,  as  he  was  always  at  the  desk  when  we  gave 
credit — nine  yards  and  a  half? — yes,  sir,  stocks  of 
all  kinds,  beautiful  and  well  made — too  high  a 
price  ! — oh,  no  indeed — will  I  take  eighteen  shil- 
lings? no,  but  I'll  split  the  difference — Hojer  Brin- 
gle, give  this  gentleman  five  shillings — Hojer  Brin- 
gle examines  all  the  three  dollar  notes,  sir."  And 
so  little  Jenny  Hart's  tongue  run  on,  while  she  cast 
rueful  glances  at  the  old  man  and  strove  to  harden 
her  heart  against  him. 

Ira  Elkado  came  in  at  one  fold  of  the  double 
door  as  Sigismund  Sloper  went  out  at  the  other, 
and  Jenny  Hart  laughed  out  in  one  of  the  cus- 
tomers' face  while  selling  him  a  pair  of  stockings. 
The  man  looked  at  his  waistcoat  and  at  his  hands, 
and  cast  a  glance  at  himself  in  the  glass  behind  the 
little  shop  girl's  head,  but  as  nothing  was  amiss  he 
attributed  it  to  a  joyous  spirit,  as  in  reality  it  was. 
"  You  are  merry,  Jenny  Hart,  this  fine  May 
morning,"  said  he.  "  I  suspect  you  are  thinking  of 
your  lover." 

"  Lover !  oh,  sir,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  casting  a  sly 
glance  at  Ira  Elkado,  as  he  solemnly  stalked  be- 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  273 

hind  the  counter,  and,  as  if  he  had  been  there  for 
years,  fell  to  putting  up  a  bundle  of  misses'  hose. 
"  Such  a  lover,  too,  thought  Jenny  Hart,  as  he 
would  make, — pretty  much,  however,  like  Mr. 
Martin  Barton, — and  she  cast  her  eye  to  the  other 
end  of  the  counter,  where  Martin  Barton  stood 
folding  up  a  bundle  of  suspenders  in  the  very  same 
solemn  way.  Hosea  Bringle,  instead  of  taking  a 
little  girl's  penny  for  two  needles, — he  had  given 
her  nines  for  sixes,  the  paper  being  turned  upside 
down  when  he  looked  at  it, — was  staring  at  the 
new  clerk,  Ira  Elkado. 

"Put  the  cent  in  Hojer  Bringle's  hand,  little  girl; 
he  is  thinking" — said  Jenny  Hart — "  here,  let  me 
stick  the  needles  in  the  paper  or  you'll  lose  them; 
they  are  tiny  little  needles;  are  you  hemming  fine 
work,  my  dear  1" 

"No,  Miss  Jenny  Hart,  mother  is  making  a 
cloak — these  are  sixes,"  said  the  child,  "are  they 
not7"  So  Jenny  Hart  had  to  go  to  the  needle  box 
and  get  out  No.  6,  saying — "  Look  here,  Hojer 
Bringle,  the  numbers  are  all  at  the  top;  this  paper, 
if  turned  up  so,  looks  like  nines;  do  you  see  now?" 

Hosea  Bringle  sighed  again,  and  Jenny  whispered 
in  his  ear — "there  are  two  fine  pair  of  ducks  and  a 
huge  mess  of  corn  salad  for  dinner  to-day,  and  I'll 
have  them  at  my  side  of  the  table  and  give  you  the 
four  legs  all  to  your  own  share,  and  all  the  stuf- 
fings out  of  two  of  them — precious  little  will  I 
give  to  Ira  Elkado,  beside  the  neck  and  rack,  or 
may  be  the  drumsticks.  Hosea  Bringle  wiped  his 
mouth  and  put  the  needle  box  nicely  away,  pitying 
Ira  Elkado  for  the  poor  dinner  he  was  to  get,  for 
Hosea  Bringle  held  the  rack  and  drumsticks  very 
cheap;  while  Ira  Elkado  was  revelling  in  the 
thoughts  of  owning  this  very  thread  and  needle 
store  that  day  three  years,  with  Jenny  Hart  for 
clerk  and  wife.  No  one,  to  look  at  Ira  Elkado, 
would  ever  suppose  that  he  had  an  excursive  ima- 
2  A 


274  THE  THREAD  AxVD  NEEDLE  STORE. 

gination,  he  looked  so  sober  and  acted  so  cau- 
tiously; but,  oh!  what  a  turmoil  and  what  business 
was  going  on  within.  He  took  all  the  company  in 
at  a  glance,  and  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would 
rule  them  all  as  Jenny  Hart  did,  and  her  into  the 
bargain.     So  he  began  that  very  moment. 

"  This  counter  is  very  inconvenient,  Miss  Jenny 
Hart,"  said  he,  striking  his  foot  against  the  bottom, 
"  it  ought  to  slope  inward;  it  is  very  wearisome  for 
you  to  keep  at  such  a  distance  from  the  counter. 
Now,  if  it  sloped  inward — now  Sigismund  Sloper, 
he"— 

Ah  ha  !  did  Ira  Elkado  think  this  was  news  to 
Jenny  Hart?  she  had  felt  the  inconvenience  often 
and  often,  but  she  counted  cost,  and  made  up  her 
mind  that  the  house  was  old,  the  counter  old,  and 
time  precious,  so  that  it  was  not  worth  while  to 
make  a  new  counter,  and,  besides,  there  was  no 
time  to  do  it.  She  gave  one  of  her  peculiar  stares, 
as  if  trying  to  comprehend  what  Ira  Elkado  was 
saying. 

"  Sigums  Sloper,  did  you  say,  Ira  Elkado, — he 
went  out  as  you  came  in;  I  persuaded  Mr.  Martin 
Barton  to  change  him  for  you  because  he  was  a 
fault  finder;  I  warned  him,  when  he  came,  to  mind 
the  customers ;  the  fact  is,  we  are  such  busy  peo- 
ple that  we  have  no  time  to  fiddle-faddle  and  look 
out  for  flaws  and  specks.  This  is  your  money 
drawer — here  are  four  places  to  drop  money  in — 
this  for  sixpenny  pieces — this  for  shillings — this  for 
quarters,  and  this  for  half  dollars.  Hojer  Bringle, 
there,  changes  three  dollar  notes,  I  five,  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin Barton  ten,  and  Mr.  Martin  Barton  all  larger 
ones.  Do  you  recollect? — to-morrow  I  shall  tell 
it  to  you  over  again."  Oh,  how  small  Ira  Elkado 
felt,  and  how  he  hated  Jenny  Hart! 

Little  Jenny  Hart  did  not  tell  him  that  she 
twitched  the  notes  from  every  hand  first,  before  the 
others  had  a  chance  of  looking  at  them.     In  fact, 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  215 

she  handed  them  to  the  one  whose  business  it  was 
to  take  them,  with  a  nod  or  a  shake  of  the  head,  if 
good,  or  bad,  for  she  was  as  wise  as  a  serpent 
about  bank  notes — and  in  what  was  she  not  wise? 

Every  body  that  went  to  the  shop  took  a  good 
look  at  Jenny  Hart,  but  no  one  took  the  least  liberty 
with  her;  there  she  stood  helping  the  customers, 
watching  Hosea  Bringle,  curbing  Ira  Elkado,  keep- 
ing Martin  Barton  from  prosing,  and  relieving  Mrs. 
Martin  Barton  from  the  most  of  her  labours.  The 
worthy  couple  had  now  been  married  eight  years, 
and  had  but  two  children,  twin  girls,  now  in  their 
seventh  year,  and  it  was  odd  enough  to  see  how 
they  were  brought  up  ;  in  fact,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Jenny  Hart  they  would  not  have  been  brought 
up  at  all.  The  shop  was  opened  at  daylight  winter 
and  summer;  Jenny  Hart  was  the  first  in  it,  and 
the  last  to  leave  it ;  every  thing,  as  they  said,  went 
through  her  mouth  and  through  her  hands;  neither 
Martin  Barton  nor  his  wife  had  the  least  concern 
in  the  world,  for  Jenny  Hart  ordered  the  marketing 
too;  and  as  the  girl  brought  the  market  basket 
through  the  long  shop,  the  little  body  would  whisk 
from  behind  the  counter,  lift  up  the  cover,  and  satis- 
fy herself  that  all  was  as  she  ordered.  Then  she 
hired  the  cook,  and  nurse,  and  maid  of  all  work, 
and  little  Betty  the  waiter  was  of  her  choosing. 

"  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  what  a  noise  those  chil- 
dren make," — said  Mr.  Martin  Barton;  "  you  must 
tell  Jenny  Hart  that  we  shall  have  to  build  a  room 
back  of  the  parlour,  and  let  them  range  about 
there,  for  their  play  is  as  noisy  as  their  cries." 

Jenny  Hart  had  just  returned  from  quieting  them, 
and  a  lady  who  was  buying  some  German  worsted 
asked  Mrs.  Martin  Barton  how  old  the  little  girls 
were. 

"Let  me  see — how  old  are  the  two  twins?" — for 
she  always  called  them  the  two  twins,  just  as  if 
they  were  speaking  of  two  candles,  or  two  pinches 


276       THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

of  snuff — "how  old  are  the  two  twins,  Jenny 
Hart  ?" 

"  Just  seven  years  old,  Mrs.  Martin  Barton," 
and  Jenny  Hart  had  answered  this  question  of  the 
age  of  the  two  twins  ever  since  they  were  a  year 
old.  Mr.  Martin  Barton  never  knew,  and  Mrs. 
Martin  Barton  always  forgot. 

"  As  to  building  another  room,  Mr.  Martin  Bar- 
ton, that  will  never  do,"  (oh,  how  Ira  Elkado  stared 
to  see  what  a  sway  she  had !)  said  Jenny  Hart, — 
"for  the  back  parlour  is  dark  enough  already,  and 
we  shall  have  less  draft  through  the  shop,  too,  if 
we  clutter  up  the  yard ;  but  the  twins  are  soon 
going  to  school ;  I  spoke  to  Mrs.  Playfair  yester- 
day,— she  was  buying  canvass  of  me, — and  she  has 
promised  to  take  good  care  of  the  children,  and  for 
one  year  let  them  off  easy — after  that,"  said  she, 
whispering  in  Mrs.  Martin  Barton's  ear — "  after 
that,  we'll  get  poor  old  Hojer  to  teach  them  at 
home,  and  Mrs.  Armstrong  will  be  a  sort  of  gov- 
erness to  them ;  for  old  Hojer  Bringle  is  a  dead 
weight  in  the  shop." 

"  Good,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  and  she  went 
the  other  side  of  Jenny  Hart  and  whispered  it  to 
Martin  Barton.     "  Good,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  only  the  ruling  of  that  girl," 
thought  Ira  Elkado,  "  how  I  would  quell  her."  Just 
as  he  said  this,  mentally,  however,  Jenny  Hart, 
who  had  sold  a  gross  of  pearl  buttons  while  the 
Martin  Bartons  were  saying  "good,  good,"  thrust 
a  bad  shilling  in  his  hand.  "  You  took  that  bad 
shilling  from  a  boy,  yesterday,"  said  she,  and  gave 
it  to  Amy  Russel  this  morning;  it  has  come  back, 
and  it  must  be  charged  to  you."  Ira  Elkado  put  it 
in  his  pocket  and  gave  her  a  good  shilling ;  but  the 
moment  her  quick  eye  was  directed  to  something 
else,  he  slipped  the  bad  piece  of  money  in  old 
Hosea  Bringle's  drawer  and  helped  himself  to 
another,  for  he  did  not  see  why  he  should  lose  it. 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  277 

Hosea  Bringle  stood  up,  holding  by  the  counter, 
fast  asleep,  and  did  not  see  it. 

"  That  bad  shilling,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  "  will  be 
known  again,  I'll  warrant,  for  I  run  the  file  across 
the  edge.  You  had  better  put  it  in  Hosea  Bringle's 
bad  money  drawer,  that  last  slit  in  the  corner;  all 
the  counterfeit  money  goes  there."  "  Powers  on 
earth!"  thought  Ira  Elkado,  "  did  the  little  black- 
eyed  devil  see  me  slip  the  shilling  in?" 

No,  Jenny  Hart  did  not  see  him  do  it,  but  she 
suspected  he  would.  She  knew  that  he  was  a 
capital  hand  to  buy  goods  at  auction,  and  it  was 
for  this  purpose  she  hired  him — we  may  as  well 
say  she  hired  him,  for  it  was  all  her  doings.  Mar- 
tin Barton  had  nothing  to  do  but  approve;  Jenny 
Hart,  therefore,  put  up  with  many  things  from  him. 

"  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,"  said  her  husband,  "  what 
a  long  holiday  those  children  have;  how  noisy 
they  are,  jumping  and  screaming  like  mad  things; 
and  old  Hosea  Bringle  with  your  night  cap  on — 
only  look  there." 

"No,  it  is  my  cap,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  "let  the 
poor  old  man  play,  for  once  in  his  life;  only  think 
how  long  he  has  been  nailed  to  this  counter.  Just 
make  a  codicil  to  your  will,  Mr.  Martin  Barton, 
and  give  the  poor  old  soul  one  hundred  dollars  a 
year  for  life — I  am  only  too  glad  to  get  him  out  of 
the  shop.  By  twelve  to-morrow  wre  shall  have  two 
nice  young  lads — if  I  can  only  remember  their 
names — I  wish  people  would  give  their  children 
plain  names.  Oh,  I  forgot,  Mrs.  Armstrong  will 
be  in  town  to-morrow;  I  have  hired  the  house  next 
door,  as  you  told  me,  and  here  is  the  lease.  I  paid 
one  year's  rent,  you  see,  in  advance." 

"Good,"  said  Martin  Barton.  "Excellent,"  said 
his  wife.  The  back  door  stood  open,  and  happy 
Hosea  Bringle  was  playing  sleep  with  the  children, 
while  they  were  tickling  his  ears  with  a  strawr,  and 
then  he  would  snap  at  the  straw,  which  made  the 
2  a2 


278  THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

little  girls  shout  again.  "Hojer  Bringle  will  fall 
asleep  in  good  earnest,"  said  Jenny  Hart  to  a  lady 
who  was  buying  hair  pins  of  her,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments he  was  snoring. 

"How old  are  your  little  girls?'  said  the  lady  to 
Mrs.  Martin  Barton. 

"  How  old  are  the  two  twins  1 — how  old  are 
they,  Jenny?  I  forget." 

"  Ten  years  old,  Mrs.  Martin  Barton  ;  I  thought 
I  had  better  leave  them  another  year  with  old  Mrs. 
Play  fair,  for  they  had  been  cooped  up  so  here,  in 
this*  close  place,  that  they  were  sickly  like,  and  the 
good  old  lady  has  quite  freshened  them  up  again. 
They  have  not  learned  much,  that  is  book  learning, 
but  all  that  will  come  in  a  few  years,  as  Mrs. 
Armstrong  is  a  rock  of  learning.  Ira  Elkado,  you 
are  the  very  prince  of  buyers."  The  young  man 
had  just  come  in  loaded  from  auction.  "  Oh,  what 
beautiful  slippers — just  what  we  wanted.  Chess- 
men!— how  many  have  you  ?  only  three  sets — well, 
I'll  take  them  oft"  your  hands,  for  we  don't  sell 
chessmen,  you  know,  and  I  have  been  wanting  to 
make  a  few  presents.  Never  buy  things  we  are 
not  in  the  habit  of  selling;  it  only  confuses  us. 
Here  is  your  money;  pray  Mr.  Martin  Barton 
charge  me  with  fifteen  dollars — they  are  as  cheap 
as  dirt,  Ira  Elkado."  "  Devil  take  the  girl," 
thought  Ira  Elkado. 

And  so  she  went  on,  talking  and  acting,  and  let- 
ting no  one  get  the  better  of  her,  whiie  the  good  cou- 
ple did  their  share  of  labour  too,  for  the  shop  had 
a  very  great  run,  and  customers  stood  three  deep 
sometimes.  "  We  shall  have  to  push  the  shop  into 
the  back  room,"  said  she  to  Martin  Barton,  "and 
get  two  more  clerks — I  mean  two  more  besides 
those  that  are  coming  to-morrow."  "  Good,"  said 
Martin  Barton. 

"  I  don't  hear  the  children's  voices  any  more,"  said 
a  lady  to  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  "  where  are  they  V 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  279 

"Oh,  they  live  next  door  with  Mrs.  Armstrong; 
we  could  not  attend  to  them  ourselves,  you  know, 
having  so  much  to  do." 

"  How  old  are  they  now,  Mrs.  Martin  Barton." 

"  How  old  are  the  two  twins  ? — let  me  see — how 
old  are  they,  Jenny  Hart?" 

"  Twelve  years  old  this  month,  Mrs.  Martin 
Barton,  and  as  fine,  healthy  children  as  you  would 
wish  to  see.  Here,  Alfred  Gray,  put  up  these 
goods,  the  porter  has  laid  them  before  me,  and 
they  belong  to  Mr.  Martin  Barton's  shelves.  These 
buttons  are  for  the  drawer,  we  shall  retail  them. 
Mr.  Martin  Barton,  to-morrow  we  begin  to  close 
the  shop  at  sundown.  Alfred  Gray  and  Jasper 
Merry  stipulated,  you  know,  that  at  the  end  of  two 
years  they  were  only  to  tend  shop  between  sun- 
rise and  sunset." 

"Very  well,"  said  Martin  Barton,  "I  am  glad 
of  it.  Then  we  may  as  well  all  quit  together,  at 
the  same  hour,  for  the  other  young  men  have  the 
like  privilege." 

"No,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  "  Ira  Elkado  made  no 
such  bargain,  he  is  to  work  evenings,  and  as  there 
are  many  bundles  to  pack  up,  he  can  help  the 
porter  to" — but  Jenny  Hart  cast  those  black  eyes  of 
hers  to  the  end  of  the  long  counter,  and  there 
stood  Ira  Elkado  figuring  away  at  accounts,  his 
auction  accounts,  and  making  all  square.  Her 
heart  smote  her,  but  she  reasoned  herself  out  of 
her  tender  feelings,  for  the  man  had  been  pre- 
sumptuous and  disposed  to  meddle,  particularly 
with  a  fifth  clerk,  a  clever  young  man  who  had  his 
station  on  the  right  hand  of  Martin  Barton,  and,  of 
course,  next  to  her.  Ira  Elkado  had  at  first 
longed  for  this  post  of  honour,  but  his  having  to 
turn  buyer  at  auctions  kept  him  from  having  a 
regular  station  behind  the  counter.  His  place  was 
the  old  spot  once  occupied  by  Hosea  Bringle,  and 
here  he  had  to  sit  perched  up  at  a  small  desk. 


280  THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

Oh,  how  these  people  worked ;  never  shop  had 
such  a  run ;  and  Jenny  Hart's  fame  had  spread  far 
and  wide.  Some  people  said  she  was  beautiful,  very- 
beautiful;  far  too  beautiful  to  stand  behind  the  coun- 
ter ;  but  others  thought  that  she  was  not  so  very 
beautiful  either;  only  so  remarkably  shrewd  and 
good  humoured.  The  gentlemen  made  business 
every  day  to  get  a  peep  at  her ;  and  yet,  after  all, 
what  was  it?  She  had  a  neat,  well  made  figure; 
a  pretty  hand,  and  a  small  foot,  with  a  delicate 
ankle.  Her  eyes  were  like  black  cherries  dipped 
in  clear  spring  water ;  and  her  teeth  were  like 
grains  of  white  corn,  standing  out  a  little.  She  had 
a  large,  well  shaped  mouth  and  rich  red  lips,  with  a 
breath  like  new  made  hay.  Her  cheek  bones  were 
a  little  too  high,  and  her  nose  a  thought  too  small; 
and  her  skin,  the  hundredth  part  of  a  shade  too 
dark  ;  but  take  her  all  in  all  there  was  a  some- 
thing which  was  very  piquant  about  her.  I  for- 
got her  voice;  it  was  fine,  clear,  and  musical,  and 
such  as  no  one  could  ever  forget. 

"I'll  have  her  yet,"  said  Ira  Elkado,  as  he  sat 
watching  her  from  the  corner  of  his  eye.  "  That 
lad,  Archy  Campbell,  next  her,  thinks  he  is  in  a 
fair  way  to  win  her,  but  he  shall  eat  poison  first.  I 
have  wrought  hard  for  her,  and  she  and  this  shop 
shall  be  mine.  I  wonder  how  old  the  black  eyed 
gipsy  is." 

More  than  Ira  Elkado  had  wondered  ;  and  had 
asked  this  question,  but  no  one  knew.  Jenny  Hart 
was  an  orphan,  and  came  early  into  Mr.  Daly's 
family.  We  knew  her  age,  however;  she  was  just 
six  and  twenty  when  Ira  Elkado  sat  wondering. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  postman  brought  two  letters, 
one  for  Martin  Barton,  and  one  for  Mrs.  Martin 
Barton — the  first  letter,  really  the  first  letter  either 
of  them  had  ever  received  in  their  lives.  Jenny 
Hart  had  never  read  a  letter,  but  she  knew  how 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.       281 

one  ought  to  be  opened ;  a  thing  which  neither  of 
the  two  owners  of  the  shop  did. 

"Jenny  Hart,  can  you  tell  how  to  open  this  letter?" 

"  Yes,  surely  I  can ;  I  have  seen  many  a  one 
opened — here,  let  me  cut  the  seals — there — they 
are  open.  This  is  yours,  Mr.  Martin  Barton ; — 
twelve  cents  a  dozen,  Miss — and  this  is  yours,  Mrs. 
Martin  Barton;  but  what  is  the  matter?" 

The  fact  is,  that  Martin  Barton  was  perplexed. 
The  letter  began  thus :  "  Dear  sir,  I  am  sorry  to 

inform  you  of  the  death  of ,"  he  had  got  so  far 

when  Jenny  Hart,  true  as  steel  to  her  business,  no 
sooner  had  said,  "What  is  the  matter?"  than  she 
turned  to  a  customer  who  wanted  black  silk  stock- 
ings. "  Mr.  Martin  Barton,  said  she,  please  to  show 
this  gentleman  the  best  black  silk  stockings— here  is 
a  pin,  stick  it  in  the  place  where  you  left  off." 
(Jenny  Hart  used  to  do  so  when  reading  a  book.) 

Martin  Barton  stuck  in  the  pin,  laid  down  the 
letter,  and  sold  the  stockings,  while  the  gentleman 
was  eyeing  the  pretty  shop-girl.  Archy  Campbell 
could  have  knocked  him  down ;  and  Ira  Elkado 
was  well  pleased  to  see  his  rival  vexed.  Jenny 
Hart  was  indifferent  to  all  this ;  turning  to  Mrs. 
Martin  Barton  with,  "some  ladies'  gloves  wanting 
— here,  stick  a  pin  in  the  letter  where  you  leave  off; 
the  gloves  are  twenty-five  cents,  you  know,  Mrs. 
Martin  Barton." 

"Archy  Campbell,"  said  she,  one  day,  "why  did 
you  look  so  angrily  at  the  gentleman  who  gave  me 
the  bunch  of  flowers  yesterday?  It  was  not  like 
you ;  and  it  gave  me  great  pain ;  you  will  drive 
customers  away  if  you  behave  so  rudely  to  them." 

•"  You  know  well  enough,  Jenny  Hart,  why  I 
looked  angrily ;  and  there  sits  Ira  Elkado,  who 
knows  it  too" — 

"  Carpet  binding  by  the  gross  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Archy  Campbell,  show  the  best  car- 
pet binding,"  said  the  indefatigable  Jenny  Hart; 


282       THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

never  waiting  to  hear  why  Archy  Campbell  looked 
so  mad  at  the  customer. 

It  certainly  was  a  great  relief  to  them  all,  when 
the  shop  closed  at  sun-down.  Every  one  felt  it  a 
blessing  but  Ira  Elkado  ;  it  cut  him  off  from  two  or 
three  hours  of  gazing  at  Jenny  Hart,  and  in  regal- 
ing himself  with  the  thoughts  of  conquering  this 
hard  hearted  gipsy,  as  he  always  called  her.  He 
lay  awake  for  hours,  very  often,  in  trying  to  perfect 
some  plan  by  which  he  could  get  admittance  to  her 
during  the  evening ;  but  it  never  came  to  any  thing. 
He  was  one  of  those  kind  of  persons  whose  ima- 
ginations are  fertile  enough ;  but  with  physical  ca- 
pacities so  entirely  different,  that  a  life  is  spent, 
or  dawdled  awray,  without  any  benefit  to  themselves 
or  others.  Had  Ira  Elkado  been  as  brisk  in  his 
motions  as  he  was  in  his  mind,  the  shop  and  Jenny 
Hart  might  have  been  his  long  ago ;  but  her  good 
genius  preserved  her  from  a  hard  fate.  Hard  it 
would  have  been ;  for  Ira  Elkado  never  ended  one 
of  his  aspiring  soliloquies  without  grinding  his  teeth 
and  promising  himself  great  satisfaction  in  scourg- 
ing her,  after  marriage,  as  she  had  scourged  him 
before.  Poor  Jenny  Hart  did  not  mean  to  scourge 
him ;  it  was  her  way  of  managing  people.  She 
was  shrewd,  and  treated  them  according  to  their 
merits ;  but  she  was  never  unjust. 

As  soon  as  the  shop  was  shut,  and  she  had  pre- 
sided at  the  tea-table,  (for  in  the  old  fashioned  way, 
the  clerks  always  lived  in  the  house,  and  ate  at  the 
table,  one  after  the  other,)  she  assisted  Martin 
Barton  and  Archy  Campbell  in  counting  the  money 
of  the  day ;  and  it  was  a  job.  But  by  the  judicious 
mode  of  keeping  the  different  money  apart;  and, 
oh,  how  she  rated  the  poor  clerk,  in  whose  box  a 
sixpence  was  found  in  the  shilling  department — 
much  time  was  saved.  Martin  Barton  and  his 
wife,  good  souls,  went  tired  to  bed,  as  soon  as  this 
was  over ;  and  then  came  Jenny  Hart's  holiday : 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  283 

then  was  the  time  to  see  her.  Talk  of  her  beauty 
and  musical  voice ;  her  bounding  spirit  and  her 
grace  of  motion,  behind  the  counter ;  what  was  all 
that  to  the  seeing  her  up  in  Mrs.  Armstrong's  room, 
with  the  twin  sisters !  Then  her  joyous  spirit  re- 
laxed; tape,  bobbin,  buttons,  money,  marketing, 
bank  stock,  rents — for  Jenny  managed  all  the 
money  concerns ;  and  Martin  Barton  was  now  im- 
mensely rich — then  all  was  combed  out  of  her  head 
with  the  first  brush  that  was  put  to  her  fine  glossy 
hair. 

It  was  the  signal  for  fun  and  frolic,  when  her 
light  step  was  heard  bounding  up  the  narrow  stairs; 
and  there  stood  the  two  girls  ready  to  snatch  the 
first  kiss,  and  to  say  the  first  word.  From  the  time 
they  could  hold  the  brush,  they  coveted  the  plea- 
sure of  combing  and  brushing  her  hair;  and  the 
poor  thing  was  generally  so  tired  that  she  was 
really  glad  when  they  were  old  enough  to  do  it 
properly  for  her.  So  up  she  came,  and  down  she 
sat  on  the  sofa ;  and  a  world  of  things  had  she  to 
hear  from  the  two  innocent  girls ;  and  then  came 
the  rummaging  of  her  apron  pockets  and  her  am- 
ple basket ;  and  then  came  Mrs.  Armstrong,  with 
her  account  of  the  progress  of  her  pupils. 

"Oh,  such  sweet  walks  as  we  have,  dear  Jenny 
Hart.  Why  can  you  not  sometimes  go  with  us? 
it  would  do  you  so  much  good,"  said  Rona,  a  beau- 
tiful black  eyed  girl ;  "you  must  go  with  us  to-mor- 
row." 

"  Or,  if  you  cannot  take  a  walk,  you  can  surely 
go  with  us  to  the  museum  in  the  evening,  now  that 
the  shop  closes  at  sundown,"  said  Ida,  the  blue 
eye,  and  quite  as  beautiful  as  her  sister. 

"  Why,  that  is  true,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  "  and  we 
can  do  a  great  deal  in  that  way,  now  that  winter 
is  coming  and  the  evenings  long." 

"  Jenny  Hart,  dear,  I  want  some  fine  cotton 
stockings,"  said  Rona.    "  And  I  want  gloves,"  said 


284  THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE- 

Ida.  "  And  I  want  a  fresh  supply  of  needles  and 
thread,  and  every  thing,  in  short,  for  these  little  gip- 
sies have  given  away  my  whole  stock." 

"  Plenty,  plenty  shall  you  have ;  for  plenty  there 
is.  And  do  you  know  that  you  are  to  have  a  grand 
Christmas  present  ?  But  if  you  guess  till  morning 
you  will  not  guess  right ;  for  'tis  a  present  that  does 
not  often  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  daughters  of  thread 
and  needle  people.  Oh,  Mrs.  Armstrong,  let  us 
remember  the  poor,  for  we  are  growing  very 
rich." 

The  girls  guessed ;  and  Mrs.  Armstrong  was 
made  to  guess ;  but  they  fell  either  above  or  below 
the  mark  ;  and  tell,  Jenny  Hart  would  not.  Then 
came  the  little  story,  that  one  or  the  other  read 
every  evening.  And,  to  see  Jenny  Hart's  admira- 
tion at  their  progress  !  And  then  came  the  writing 
books;  and,  lastly,  just  as  the  clock  struck  ten, 
came  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  little  Betty,  with  her 
face  hidden  in  her  handkerchief,  presented  to  the 
astonished  Jenny  Hart  two  letters. 

"Oh,  you  rogues,"  said  the  delighted  little  maiden 
— "  letters  from  you — oh,  how  nicely  they  are  writ- 
ten. And  I  dare  say  they  are  all  spelled  right; 
hey,  Mrs.  Armstrong?  And  how  sweetly  they 
smell  of  roses.  I'll  show  them  to  your  father  and 
mother  in  the  morning ;  and,  if  there  is  a  chance, 
to  Archy  Campbell." 

"  And  to  Jasper  Merry,"  said  blaHc  eyed  Rona; 
"  and  to  Alfred  Gray,"  said  the  little  blue  eye.  "  I 
will,  I  will,"  said  Jenny  Hart. 

"  And  why  not  to  Peter  Squires  and  IraElkado?" 
said  Mrs.  Armstrong.  "  Because,"  said  Jenny 
Hart,  "  I  never  think  of  Peter  Squires  from  one 
year's  end  to  the  other.  I  see  quite  through  him 
when  he  stands  near  me;  such  a  mere  shadow  he 
is.  Not  but  that  he  is  a  faithful,  honest  creature. 
I'll  get  Mr.  Martin  Barton  to  set  him  up  in  busi- 
ness, one  of  these  days ;  and,  as  to  Ira  Elkado — 


THE  THREAD  AND  \EEDLE  STORE.  285 

I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Armstrong,  I  go  as  near  to 
hating  him  as  I  can  hate  any  one ;  and  yet,  poor 
soul,  he  does  me  no  harm.  I  think  I'll  set  him  up 
with  Peter  Squires  ;  but  we  cannot  spare  him  yet. 
We  have  not  made,  what  1  think,  enough  money 
yet.  I  shall  remember  the  museum  ;  and,  perhaps, 
I  may  bring  Archy  Campbell  with  me." 

"And  Jasper  Merry,"  said  Rona.  "  And  Alfred 
Gray,"  said  Ida.  "  Yes,  yes,  dears ;  I'll  bring 
them  all;  and  so,  good  night — good  night;  and 
write  me  such  a  pretty  letter  every  day ;  and  who 
knows  what  I'll  do  when  Christmas  comes?" 

Christmas  was  indeed  a  day  writh  the  whole  fa- 
mily of  Martin  Barton.  First,  there  was  the  great 
long  counter,  covered  wTith  squares  of  table-cloths, 
before  each  clerk's  stand ;  and  then,  there  was  the 
hall  table,  for  the  servants;  and,  lastly,  there  was 
the  parlour,  next  door — literally  full  of  presents  for 
the  children,  Mrs.  Martin  Barton's  two  twins ;  and 
there  were  the  little  baskets  for  the  poor  custom- 
ers— I  suspect  they  did  not  pay  much  for  needle 
and  thread.  Jenny  Hart  had  arranged  everything 
herself;  and  there  she  stood  in  the  shop,  at  sunrise, 
having  given  them  all  an  early  breakfast.  With  a 
little  white  wand  in  her  hand,  she  pointed  to  a  table 
that  stood  out  from  the  corner,  and  said — 

"Hosea  Bringle — our  oldest  and  our  best  clerk 
— lift  up  the  table  cover;  Martin  Barton  hopes  you 
will  be  pleased  with  what  is  under." 

Old  Hosea,  who  had  not  been  in  the  shop  for  a 
long  time,  lifted  up  the  cover — "  Oh,  Jenny  Hart, 
how  kind  ;  how  excellent  all  these  things  are  ;  and 
I  was  wishing  for  this  box  of  tools,  and  all  this  fine 
wire;  (just  as  if  Jenny  Hart  did  not  know  his 
wants)  and  here  is  fine  perfumed  soap,  and  every 
thing  an  old  man  wants  ;  and,  ah  ha,  Miss  Jenny 
Hart,  you  have  found  out  I  have  a  sweet  tooth, 
have  you?  (Jenny  Hart  had  furnished  him  with 
confectionary  for  twelve  vears,)  and  what's  this  ? 
2b 


286  THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

— a  suit  of  clothes?  oh,  Miss  Jenny  Hart — and  the 
old  man  wrung  her  hand,  with  his  eyes  swimming; 
while  she,  the  good  little  maiden,  laughed  till  she 
cried. 

"  Ira  Elkado — lift  up  that  cover,"  said  she,  touch 
ing  it  with  her  wand.  "  What  can  it  be  V  thought 
he ;  "  it  lies  flat ;  I  think  she  means  to  play  me  a 
trick.  I  shall  not  touch  it.  Nothing  can  lie  under 
that  flat  cover;"  so  he  said,  "Never  mind  me, 
Jenny  Hart ;  pass  on  to  Mr.  Archy  Campbell." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  laughing,  "Archy 
Campbell,  lift  up  your  parcel ;"  and  Archy  Camp- 
bell lifted  up  the  cover ;  but  there  was  nothing  but 
a  bunch  of  rods  and  a  little  note.  He  slipped  the 
note  into  his  pocket,  without  looking  at  it,  redden- 
ing up  to  the  very  temples.  He  likewise  took  up 
the  bunch  of  rods,  and  gallantly  kissed  it,  which 
made  Jenny  Hart  blush  in  return.  "  Devil  take 
the  impudent  rascal,"  said  Ira  Elkado. 

"  You  come  next,  Alfred  Gray ;"  and  Alfred 
Gray  lifted  up  the  cover,  where  lay  chess  men  and 
drawing  materials,  and  perfumery,  and  books,  and 
keepsakes  in  plenty.  A  little  note  lay  there,  too;  but 
he  left  all  and  went  near  the  door  to  read  it.  "  Keep 
the  contents  to  yourself,"  whispered  Jenny  Hart. 

Jasper  Merry's  parcel  was  similar  to  his  friend's; 
and  the  little  note  caused  them  both  to  smile.  Peter 
Squires  came  last;  and  there  lay  a  nice  new  suit 
of  clothes  for  him,  and  a  variety  of  very  useful  and 
pretty  articles  likewise ;  such  as  a  poor  young  man 
would  like  to  have,  and  could  not  afford  to  buy. 

"Now  you  are  all  pleased,"  said  Jenny  Hart, 
"but  Ira  Elkado;  and  why  he  don't  lift  up  the  cover 
I  cannot  tell.  I  must  do  it  for  him."  She  lifted  up 
the  cover,  and  only  a  little  note  was  seen.  Archy 
Campbell  felt  injured,  for  he  dreaded  the  contents 
of  the  note ;  but  he  need  not  have  been  jealous. 
It  ran  thus: 

"  Mr.  Ira  Elkado,  you  have  served  me  faithfully 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.       287 

for  seven  years.  I  shall  want  you  no  longer.  At 
the  corner  of  Joice  street,  you  will  find  your  shop. 
I  hope  it  will  be  to  your  liking.  One  year's  rent  is 
paid.     Your  friend,  Martin  Barton." 

Ira  Elkado  had  nearly  fainted  ;  but,  rallying,  he 
lifted  up  his  head  to  thank  Jenny  Hart ;  but  she 
was  gone.  Out  he  rushed  to  look  at  his  shop.  He 
might  well  thank  Jenny  Hart,  for  it  was  all  her  do- 
ings. She  had  persuaded  Martin  Barton  to  give 
theyoung  man  this  outfit — a  thousand  dollars'  worth. 
Ira  Elkado  made  heaps  of  money,  and  died  a  rich 
man ;  but  he  had  visions  of  Jenny  Hart  to  the  last. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  little  girls'  present  was  at 
the  door  ;  a  handsome  new  carriage,  and  a  pair  of 
excellent,  gentle  horses.  "  There's  for  you,  dears," 
said  she,  as  the  happy  children  flew  to  the  window; 
"  there,  jump  in.  After  sitting  in  church  so  long 
you  will  be  the  better  for  a  little  ride.  Come,  let  us 
all  go ;  Martin  Barton  has  never  been  inside  of  a 
carriage  in  his  life ;  and  I  can  scarcely  remember 
how  it  is."  The  whole  family — six — took  a  nice 
ride  to  old  Mr.  Daly's,  and  had  a  fine  Christmas 
dinner. 

"  Well,  young  gentlemen,  how  did  you  like  the 
contents  of  the  notes?"  said  she,  the  next  morning. 
"  O  delightful!  Most  happy  it  made  us,"  said  Alfred 
Gray  and  Jasper  Merry.  "  And  the  honour  is  deeply 
felt  by  me,"  said  Archy  Campbell,"  blushing  and 
looking  tenderly  at  Jenny  Hart,  who  said,  "  Pshaw." 
The  notes  were  nothing  more  than  an  invitation 
from  Mrs.  Armstrong  to  go  with  them  to  the  muse- 
um. From  that  hour  every  evening  was  spent  in 
Mrs.  Armstrong's  parlour;  and  innocent  they  were, 
for  the  lady  was  indeed,  as  Jenny  Hart  said,  a  rock 
of  learning;  and  loved  to  improve  young  people. 

Martin  Barton  knew  no  more  what  was  going  on 
next  door  than  if  the  family  was  not  his;  all  the 
day  was  spent  behind  the  counter,  and  the  evening 
found  them  so  tired  that  they  were  only  fit  for  the 


288       THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

bed  when  the  money  was  counted,  and  put  in  the 
iron  chest.  On  Sunday  they  went  regularly  to 
church,  in  the  morning,  dined,  took  a  long  nap  in 
the  afternoon,  were  called  up  to  tea,  yawned  while 
drinking  it;  and,  after  a  few  vain  attempts  to  keep 
awake,  fairly  took  the  candle  and  went  to  bed. 
Poor  tired  souls ;  if  it  had  not  been  for  this  one  day's 
rest,  they  never  could  have  gone  through  the  week. 
But  Jenny  Hart  did  not  tire ;  her  little  caoutchouc 
frame  never  failed  her.  Her  twins  and  herself, 
with  Mrs.  Armstrong  and  old  Hosea,  spent  almost 
every  Sunday  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daly,  going  with 
them  to  the  village  church. 

Still  they  toiled  on ;  the  years  passed — flew,  it 
seemed;  and  they  grew  richer  end  richer,  until 
even  Jenny  thought  they  had  enough;  and  most 
judiciously  had  she  placed  the  money.  She  had 
chosen  her  counsellor  well ;  honest  Mr.  Norton, 
the  broker;  he  never  deceived  her  for  a  moment ; 
and,  as  to  herself,  even  Archy  Campbell  did  not 
covet  her  hand  more  than  did  Mr.  Norton.  He 
would  have  taken  her  without  a  cent ;  indeed  he 
did  not  know  that  she  had  a  penny  in  the  world  ; 
but  Jenny  Hart  was  as  honest  as  himself;  and  she 
settled  it  in  her  mind,  long  ago,  that  she  could  never 
be  his  wife.  He  was  true  to  her,  however — dear 
Jenny  Hart,  who  would  not  be  true  to  her? 

"  Take  this  parcel  up  to  Mrs.  Armstrong,  Betty," 
said  Jenny  Hart,  one  fine  morning  in  May,  "  and 
say,  that  if  it  suits  she  can  keep  the  whole  dozen." 
"  Twelve  for  a  shilling,  sir;  thank  you."  "  Knit- 
ting needles  ?"  "  Yes,  the  best  of  steel ;  Alfred 
Gray,  some  of  the  best  steel  knitting  needles — A 
newspaper  from  Mr.  Norton,  my  boy  ? — thank  you  ; 
stop,  here  is  a  pair  of  gloves  for  you ;  now  run 
home. — You  have  only  measured  off  seven  yards, 
Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  and  the  lady  asked  for  eight 
— Jasper  Merry,  make  that  dog  go  out — Your's, 
madam,  is  it? — well,  Jasper  Merry,  just  put  him 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  289 

outside  of  the  door  and  shut  it — Why  did  Mr.  Nor- 
ton send  me  the  paper? — Oh,  I  see — The  Camper- 
down  property  is  for  sale,  Mrs.  Martin  Barton — 
Mr.  Daly,  your  father  wants  you  to  buy  it  sadly. 
We  rode  out  there  yesterday  afternoon;  and, 
really,  it  is  a  place  for  a  prince,  let  alone  poor  thread 
and  needle  people,  like  ourselves.  It  is  very  much 
improved  since  you  were  there,  last  fall,  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin Barton;  all  the  houses  are  finished;  and  now 
the  gardens  are  all  laid  out,  and  the  fences  and  the 
grounds ;  and  it  looks  like  a  little  settlement  already. 
Four  beautiful  houses,  all  large  and  very  roomy ; 
and  the  river  in  front,  too.  I  wonder  what  it  will 
bring.  It  is  to  be  sold  separate  or  together ;  but  I 
fear  it  is  beyond  our  means.  The  property  is  to  be 
sold  on  Monday  next." 

"  I  wonder  how  it  came  to  be  called  Camper- 
down,"  said  Martin  Barton.  "  I  had  a  scapegrace 
of  a  cousin,  called  Camperdown  Barton ;  but  for 
him  my  old  uncle  Davies  would  have  left  me  some- 
thing handsome.  Some  people  did  say,  that  this 
Camperdown  Barton  forged  a  will  in  his  own  fa- 
vour ;  but  I  could  not  believe  it." 

"Mr.  Barton,"  said  a  man,  entering  the  shop — 
"  Martin  Barton,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Mar- 
tin Barton. 

"  Mr.  Martin  Barton,"  said  the  man,  smiling, 
"  have  you  any  white  galloon  V*  "  Yes."  "  Alfred 
Gray,  hand  down  that  box  of  white  galloon,"  said 
Jenny  Hart. 

"  And  where  is  this  Camperdown  Barton,  now," 
said  Jenny  Hart,  when  the  man  had  bought  the  gal- 
loon, and  was  out  of  the  shop. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell ;  but  he  was  in  the  West  In- 
dies when  I  last  heard  of  him.  He  married,  and 
had  two  children,  and" — 

"  La,  Mr.  Martin  Barton,"  said  his  wife,  "  what 
became  of  my  letter;  I  am  sure  there  was  some 
mention  made  in  it  of  this  Camperdown  Barton — 
2  b  2 


290  THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

I  stuck  a  pin  in  it,  Jenny  Hart,  as  you  told  mc,  at 
the  very  place;  and  I  had  no  time  to  finish  the 
letter ;  in  fact  I  don't  know  where  I  put  it.  Do  you 
know,  Jenny  Hart? — it  is  many  years  ago." 

"  Well,  let  me  see — yes,  I  think  I  know;  it  is  in 
the  japan  box,  on  the  toilet  table.  And  what  be- 
came of  your  letter,  Mr.  Martin  Barton  ?" 

"  Mine,  Jenny  Hart?  that  is  more  than  I  r.an  tell. 
I  laid  it  just  here ;  and  I  stuck  a  pin  in  at  where  I 
left  off,  as  you  told  me." 

"It  must  have  been  pushed  aside;  or  perhaps  it 
was  folded  up  in  one  of  the  bundles  of  stockings. 
It  is  gone,  certainly.  I  trust  it  had  nothing  of  im- 
portance in  it."  Jenny  Hart  always  placed  Martin 
Barton  before  the  shelves  of  socks  and  stockings, 
as  they  were  the  least  perplexing  articles  to  sell. 

"  Here  is  a  letter,"  said  Jasper  Merry,  "I  picked 
it  up  the  other  day,  by  Mr.  Martin  Barton's  feet;  I 
think  it  must  have  fallen  from  that  bundle  of  stock- 
ings that  you  sent  up  to  Mrs.  Armstrong." 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Jenny  Hart."  She  took  it, 
and  cast  her  eye  over  the  contents,  while  Mr.  Mar- 
tin Barton  and  his  wife  were  plunged  in  tapes,  bob- 
bins, buttons  and  pins.  She  quietly  put  it  in  her 
little  French  pocket,  and  as  quietly  walked  out  of 
the  shop.  In  five  minutes  Mr.  Norton  was  with  her 
up  in  Mrs.  Armstrong's  parlour. 

"Look  here,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  "just  read  this 
letter,  Mr.  Norton.  Only  think  what  luck  to  find  it 
as  we  did.  Two  days  later,  and  all  would  have 
been  lost  to  us."  Mr.  Norton  was  indeed  surprised, 
for  this  letter  announced  the  death  of  this  very 
cousin,  and  his  two  children — this  Camperdown 
Barton ;  and  he  had  left  all  the  property  to  his  cou- 
sin, Martin  Barton,  on  condition  that  he  claimed  it 
before  a  certain  period.  If  not  claimed  then,  it  was 
to  be  sold  and  the  money  divided  among  some  dis- 
tant relations.  As  Martin  Barton  had  not  claimed 
it — how  tired  I  am  of  always  writing  his  name  at 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  291 

lull  length;  but  I  shall  soon  have  done — the  pro- 
perty was  to  be  sold  on  the  following  Monday,  the 
very  day  the  term  expired. 

"  There  is  no  difficulty,  then,  Mr.  Norton,"  said 
Jenny  Hart,  "  we  can  claim  it  yet,  can  we?"  Cer- 
tainly my  dear  Jenny  Hart — he  could  not  have  call- 
ed her  Jenny  for  the  world,  nor  could  I — so  send 
Martin  Barton  to  me.  Can  you  tell  why  he  chose  to 
be  called  Martin  Barton'? — 'tis  so  tiresome." 

"  Why,  this  very  Campcrdown  Barton  was  the 
cause;  he  was  a  bad  character  even  when  very 
young,  and  our  Martin  Barton  kept  the  two  names 
together,  that  he  might  not  be  taken  for  his  cousin. 
I  only  heard  all  this  this  morning,  for  we  have 
been  always  too  busy  to  talk  of  such  matters.  I 
think  that  Mrs.  Martin  Barton  is  even  more  particu- 
lar on  this  point  than  he  is.  But,  oh,  Mr.  Norton, 
don't  our  dear  little  girls  grow  finely  ?" 

"  Little  girls  indeed  !  why  they  arc  young  wo- 
men, taller  than  yourself,  Jenny  Hart ;  but  they  don't 
eclipse  you  yet ;  you  are  as  pretty  and  good  as  ever, 
hard-hearted  girl  that  you  are ;  but  I  claim  the  pro- 
mise of  giving  you  away,"  said  the  kind  old  bache- 
lor, seeing  Jenny  Hart  shy  off'.  "  Good  morning, 
then,  if  you  must  go;  but  this  shop  business  will  kill 
you;  you  work  too  hard." 

"Never  fear,"  said  she,  and  down  she  tripped, 
pitying  Mr.  Norton  for  his  hopeless  love,  although 
he  was  now  quite  resigned  to  it ;  and  congratulating 
Martin  Barton  on  this  handsome  accession  of  pro- 
perty. Of  course,  every  thing  was  properly  done, 
and  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  every  one  but  the 
poor  folks,  who  were  on  the  point  of  getting  the 
money.  This  Camperdown  Barton  had,  in  reality, 
secreted  the  will  of  their  uncle;  but  on  the  death  of 
his  children  he  repented,  and  restored  as  much  of 
the  property  as  was  left  to  the  true  owner.    - 

But  oh,  what  a  plot  Jenny  Hart  had  in  hand — her 
first  plot  and  her  last.     She  had  acquainted  Martin 


292       THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE- 

Barton  and  his  wife,  with  the  affection  that  was 
growing  up  between  their  daughters  and  the  two 
excellent  young  clerks,  Jasper  Merry  and  Alfred 
Gray;  and  the  good  couple  were  very  well  content. 
The* acme  of  bliss  was  to  stand  day  in  and  day  out, 
in  the  thread  and  needle  shop,  eat  their  three  nice 
meals,  count  out  their  five  long  boxes  of  copper  and 
silver  and  bank  notes,  rock  themselves  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  in  their  high  backed  rocking  chairs,  and 
go  lovingly  to  bed  as  innocent  and  happy  as  their 
"  two"  twins. 

For  one  month  did  Jenny  Hart  toil  as  no  woman 
ever  did  toil;  for  she  had  all  sorts  of  work  people  to 
superintend,  and  all  sorts  of  secrets  to  keep:  and 
above  all  she  had  to  repress  Archy  Campbell's 
highly  excited  feelings,  for  he  was  as  far  as  ever 
from  coming  to  any  understanding  with  her.  V\  ell, 
all  was  ready — the  first  of  June  came  ;  Archy  had 
been  told  in  a  quiet  kind  of  way,  that  he  was  to  be 
bride's  man  to  his  two  young  companions;  and  that 
he  must  be  ready  at  a  minute's  warning,  and  to  go 
on  as  if  nothing  was  to  happen,  particularly  on  this 
their  last  day  in  the  shop. 

The  last  day  came — the  first  of  June,  and  the 
shop  was  unusually  full;  for  quietly  as  Jenny  Hart 
managed  every  thing,  still  something  had  leaked 
out,  and  as  she  was  the  most  conspicuous  person, 
the  secret  was  attached  to  her.  It  was  conjectured, 
that  she  was  either  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Norton  or 
to  Archy  Campbell,  and  in  either  case  she  would 
disappear  from  public  eyes. 

It  will  be  a  great  loss  to  the  shop  when  she  goes, 
said  one;  a  public  loss  said  another;  Jenny  Hart 
ought  never  to  marry  said  a  young  gentleman;  for 
half  the  pleasure  in  life  we  young  fellows  have,  is  to 
get  a  look  at  her  and  hear  her  musical  voice,  so 
modest  and  so  arch  and  gay  as  she  is  too.  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  choke  old  Norton,  and  shoot  this 
Archy  Campbell ;  and  there  he  stands,  looking  as  if 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORK.       293 

no  happiness  awaited  him.  I  think  it  must  be  old  Nor- 
ton after  all ;  for  no  man  could  look  so  grave  on  the 
eve  of  marrying  such  a  peerless  creature  as  this 
Jenny  Hart.  Young  and  old  caught  a  whisper  of 
the  news,  but  no  one  dared  to  banter  her ;  in  fact, 
there  was  no  chance,  she  was  so  busy. 

Tired  and  fagged  they  all  were  that  day;  and  if 
you  had  looked  down  behind  the  counter,  you  would 
have  seen  Martin  Barton,  the  much  enduring  crea- 
ture, standing  on  one  foot  to  rest  the  other.  His 
wife  had  told  him  to  do  it  years  ago;  and  so,  when- 
ever he  saw  her  standing  on  one  foot,  which  was 
generally  every  Saturday,  he  thought  it  was  high 
time  to  do  the  same.  This  day  poor  Jenny  Hart 
did  complain  of  fatigue,  the  first  time  Archy  Camp- 
bell had  ever  heard  her  complain  of  any  thing. 
"Are  you  tired,  Jenny  Hart?"  said  Martin  Barton, 
"  how  sorry  I  am."  "  Tired,  are  you  V'  said  Mrs. 
Martin  Barton,  "  stand  on  one  foot  as  we  do  Jenny 
Hart,  that  will  rest  the  other."  "  Stand  on  one 
foot,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  laughing,  "  I  have  not  a  foot 
left  to  stand  upon." 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  bunch  of  flowers,"  said  a 
lady,  "  where  did  they  come  from,  and  whom  are 
they  for  ?" 

"  They  came  from  our  new  place  Camperdown," 
said  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  "and  they  are  for  our 
two  twins  to-morrow." — Jenny  Hart  pushed  her. 

"Ah  !  true,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  recollect  you  have 
twins;  how  old  are  they'!" 

"  How  old?  let  me  see,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  Barton, 
who  really  had  known  the  night  before  ;  but  Jenny's 
push  had  bewildered  her — she  was  afraid  that  to 
tell  their  age,  would  be  to  tell  the  secret.  "  How 
old  are  they  Jenny  Hart?" 

"  Just  seventeen,  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  and  the 
sun  is  down,  you  see.  We  shut  up  shop  now  at  sun- 
down," said  Mr.  Martin  Barton.  Seeing  that  many 
of  the  customers  lingered — we  arc  going  to  the 


294  THE  THREAD  AiVD   NEEDLE  STORE. 

Jenny  gave  him  a  push.  "What  ails  them  both  to 
tell  things  now,"  thought  she,  "just  at  this  present 
moment,  and  never  before  V 

"Well,  the  shop  was  closed,  the  clerks  had  their 
tea,  the  boxes  were  brought  in  and  the  money  count- 
ed; Archy  Campbell  put  all  in  the  strong  box  and 
disappeared.  Jenny  Hart, — a  thing  of  late  years, 
quite  unusual,  set  herself  down  in  a  chair,  and  seem- 
ed as  if  she  were  going  to  spend  the  evening  in  the 
little  back  room. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  my  good  kind 
friends,"  said  she  at  last,  "  something  that  I  fear 
will  give  you  pain;  and  I  have  also  a  favour  to  beg 
of  you,  and  this  I  know  you  will  have  pleasure  in 
granting." 

"  Tell  us  all  in  the  morning,  dear  Jenny  Hart," 
said  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  "  for  I  am  so  sleepy  and 
tired,  that  I  cannot  even  listen." 

"Just  stop  one  moment,"  said  she,  as  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin Barton  was  pulling  her  husband  by  the  sleeve  to 
go,  she  having  the  candlestick  in  her  hand. 

"  You  are  going  with  us  to  Camperdown  to-mor- 
row," said  he,  "  and  you  can  come  in  our  carriage, 
and  tell  us  all  about  it.  Poor  thing,  see  how  tired 
she  is;"  and  he  looked  down,  and  saw  Mrs.  Martin 
Barton  on  one  foot. 

"  Going  with  you,"  said  Jenny  Hart,  her  lip  qui- 
vering, "yes,  just  for  to-morrow;  but  you'll  see 
then — you'll  see.  But  go  to  bed,  for  I  fear  that 
what  I  have  to  say,  will  rob  you  of  sleep." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Martin  Barton,  "  nothing  can  keep 
two  such  tired  souls  awake,  so  say  out  and  have 
done  with  it.  You  see  that  even  poor  tired  Letty 
is  broad  awake,  has  let  go  my  sleeve,  and  has  put 
down  the  candlestick." 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  "  a 
change  has  come  over  you.  I  have  not  heard  you 
all  me  Letty  this  many  a  day.  Speak  out  Jenny  Hart." 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.       295 

"  I  won't  detain  you  long,"  said  Jenny,  rising  as 
she  spoke,  and  going  near  her  friends,  "  We  have 
taken  an  account  of  stock  you  know — and  my 
wages  for  the  last  fourteen  years,  untouched  you 
know,  is  about  equal  to  the  amount  of  goods.  I 
want  you  to  let  Archy  Campbell  have  the  goods  and 
the  shop,  and  your  good  will — and — poor  Jenny 
Hart  in  the  bargain.  Archy  Campbell  has  saved 
money  too ;  will  you  give  your  consent?" 

"No,"  thundered  out  Martin  Barton,  wide 
awake,  "  that  I  won't.  The  goods  he  may  have 
for  nothing,  the  shop  he  may  have  for  nothing,  and 
our  best  good  will  he  may  have ;  but  as  to  your 
leaving  us — no,  never.  Oh,  Jenny  Hart,  Jenny 
Hart,  can  you  bear  to  leave  us  ?  You  may  w7ell 
cry  and  take  on  so,  Letty ;  why  it  is  impossible, 
Jenny  Hart — we  could  not  stand  it." 

"  Oh,  Jenny  Hart,  dear  Jenny  Hart,"  said  Mrs. 
Martin  Barton,  wide  awake  now,  falling  on  the 
afflicted  little  maiden's  neck,  and  trembling  like  a 
leaf—"  don't  leave  us,  we  shall  both  die  if  you 
think  of  leaving  us.  Martin  Barton,  don't  let  us 
go  to  Camperdown — that  is,  to  live  there,  I  mean. 
If  she  will  stay,  let  us  remain  and  keep  shop  for 
her  as  she  has  done  for  us." 

"  Good  heaven,"  thought  Jenny  Hart,  almost 
fainting  with  emotion,  "  could  I  have  believed  that 
under  this  untiring  money-making  spirit  there  wras 
so  much  of  deep  feeling? — and  for  me  too  !  But  I 
cannot  give  up  Archy  Campbell;  he  has  wrought 
hard  for  me.  If  I  go  with  them  I  must  give  him 
up,  and  that  I  find  I  cannot  do." 

"  There  is  no  sleep  for  us  to-night,  Jenny" — see- 
ing her  hesitate— "  how  much  did  you  say  we 
were  now  worth  ?" 

"Why,  Archy  Campbell  was  just  whispering  to 
me  as  he  went  out  that  you  were  now  worth  half 
a  million  of  dollars,  besides  the  large  Camperdown 


296  THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

properly.  He  has  been  hard  at  work  with  Mr. 
Norton  for  the  last  week." 

"Half  a  million!"  said  Mrs.  Martin  Barton; 
"  well,  it  is  really  time  to  leaye  off  selling  thread 
and  needles." 

"  Yes,  a  good  half  million,"  said  the  little  shop- 
woman  exultingly.  Martin  Barton  whispered  to 
his  wife,  and  she  wiped  her  tearful  eyes,  and 
laughed  out  aloud.  "  Excellent,"  said  she, — "  ah, 
Jenny,  you  have  had  your  day,  now  we'll  have  ours; 
it  is  all  settled,  Jenny  Hart,  we  have  settled  it  all, 
and  now  I  am  getting  sleepy  again — so,  good  night." 

What  did  Jenny  do  when  the  good  couple  left 
her  ?  why  she  sent  little  Betty  for  Archy  Campbell, 
and  when  he  came  in  she  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"  Archy  Campbell,"  said  she,  "  I  have  never  told 
you  that  this  was  the  last  day  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Martin  Barton  were  to  be  in  the  shop.  They  have 
left  it  entirely,  and — and — it  is  yours — all  yours, 
goods,  shop,  and  all." 

"And  you,  Jenny  Hart,"  said  the  young  man,  rising 
and  standing  before  her,  trembling  with  emotion. 

"I,"  said  she,  rising  also,  and  stepping  to  the 
door  of  the  entry  which  led  to  the  next  house, — 
"  I,  why  lam  going  to  Camperdown  with  the 
family."  (Oh,  Jenny  Hart,  Jenny  Hart,  how  could 
you  torment  the  young  man  in  this  way  ?) 

"  Then  the  devil  take  the  goods,  the  shop,  and 
all,"  said  he,  putting  on  his  hat.  f  They  may  look 
out  for  another  bridesman  to-morrow,  and  so  I  will 
tell  the  young  man.     I  had  hoped  that  in  time" — 

"  They  are  going  to  look  out  for  another  brides- 
man in  your  place,"  said  the  provoking  girl,  breaking 
her  heart,  too,  to  see  him  so  unhappy.  "They  went 
to  see  one  of  their  friends  an  hour  ago,  and  I  am  to 
have  the  two  sweet  girls  for  my  bridesmaids,  and 
you  are  to  have  both  Jasper  Merry  and  Alfred  Gray 
for  your  bridesmen;  so  get  yourself  ready  and" — 

"Jenny,  dearest  Jenny,"  said  he,   approaching 


TEW  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.  297 

her,  almost  beside  himself  through  hopes  and  fears, 
"arc  you  in  earnest?  am  I  at  last" — and  he  that 
had  never  wept  since  he  left  his  mother,  now 
covered  his  face  and  wept  aloud. 

"  Archy  Campbell,  I  did  not  think  you  would  be 
so  greatly  affected.  Oh,  how  I  have  underrated 
every  body !  what  a  world  we  live  in,  myself  the 
poorest  in  it.  Here  is  my  hand,  dear  Archy  Camp- 
bell; it  is  so  long  since  I  gave  you  my  heart  that  I 
forget  I  ever  had  one." 

One  embrace  and  the  lovers  parted;  she  tripped 
up,  frightened  to  death  at  what  she  had  done,  and 
he  threw  his  hat  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  room  in 
a  transport  of  joy. 

So  the  carriages  came  to  the  door,  and  then 
first  stepped  in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin  Barton,  Mrs. 
Armstrong  and  Mr.  Norton,  (they  were  married 
that  day  six  months,  and  I  was  at  the  wedding,)  and 
little  Betty,  who  sat  down  between  Martin  Barton's 
feet  Then,  in  the  second  carriage,  stepped  Rona, 
Jasper  Merry,  Ida,  and  Alfred  Gray ;  then  went 
Archy  Campbell — no,  I  ought  rather  to  say,  then 
went  Jenny  Hart  and  Archy  Campbell;  he  felt  too 
deeply  to  wish  for  any  other  person  near  him  at 
that  moment  but  his  own  darling,  Jenny  Hart — let 
me  call  her  so  a  little  longer; — and,  lastly,  went  the 
bridesmaids  and  bridesmen,  who  rattled  away,  and 
were  the  first  to  get  at  the  church  door  to  help  the 
party  out. 

There  had  been  great  altercation  the  morning 
before  as  to  who  should  be  married  first,  but  Jenny 
Hart  did  not  conquer  this  time.  They  all  coaxed 
and  threatened,  and  at  last  she  had  to  consent,  to 
save  time,  she  said.  "  1  would  not  give  up  now, 
my  dear  girls,  but  I  feel  as  if  the  poor  shop  girl" — ■ 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Jenny  Hart,"  said  Mrs, 
Martin  Barton,  "  you  are  not  a  poor" — 

Martin  Barton  gave  her  a  push.  Then  came 
the  ^dispute  as  to  which  of  the  twins  should  stand. 
2c 


298       THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

up  first,  for  Mrs.  Martin  Barton  had  forgotten 
which  was  the  oldest;  there  was  only  half  an 
hour's  difference,  however.  Jenn;f  Hart  settled 
that  by  saying,  that,  as  Jasper  Merry  was  older 
than  Alfred  Gray,  his  bride  should  take  the  prece- 
dence— and  all  was  settled. 

So  Jenny  Hart,  and  her  manly,  handsome 
lover,  Archy  Campbell,  were  married  first — and 
there  had  like  to  have  been  no  one  else  mar- 
ried, there  was  so  much  kissing  and  frying: 
but  the  ceremonies  proceeded,  and  the  clergy- 
man said  he  had  never  married  three  such  lovely 
couples  before.  He  had  five  little  notes  in  his  hand 
as  the  carriages  drove  off;  it  was  a  surprise  to  the 
poor  clergyman,  for  each  paper  contained  a  hun- 
dred dollar  note — even  Mr.  Martin  Barton  and 
Mr.  Norton  made  the  clergyman  a  present.  But — 
half  a  million ! 

Away  the  carriages  flew — five  miles  to  Camper- 
down — and  there,  looking  quite  young  and  hand- 
some, stood  good  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daly,  waiting  to 
bless  them  all,  and  to  tell  them  that  dinner  was 
ready. 

The  table — two  tables,  I  should  say,  were  set 
out,  and  people  may  believe  it  or  not  as  they 
choose,  but,  though  every  delicacy  was  on  them, 
there  was  neither  decanter  nor  wine  glass.  Tem- 
perance was  their  motto  ;  it  was  by  temperance  in 
all  things  that  these  thread  and  needle  people  made 
themselves  rich  and  happy. 

The  dinner  was  all  one  happy  confusion ;  and, 
if  Hosea  Bringle  had  not  solaced  himself  with  a 
good  luncheon,  beforehand,  he  would  have  risen 
from  the  table  with  but  a  poor  account  of  delica- 
cies eaten — he  was  impelled  on  by  the  tide  of  joy- 
ful faces,  to  follow,  as  they  left  the  house  to  take 
possession  of  their  future  homes. 

Archy  Campbell,  with  Jenny  hanging  on  his  arm, 
(good  reader,  let  me  go  back  again,  and  call  her 
Jenny  Hart.)     Archy  Campbell,  with  dear  Jenny 


THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE.       299 

Hart  hanging  on  his  arm,  walked  slowly  forward  ; 
his  heart  was  too  lull  to  be  gay;  his  happiness  was 
too  new;  his  gratitude  too  deep,  to  know  what  was 
•'!  passing;  and  his  bride,  letting  in  a  flood  of  new 
feelmgs,  was  pondering  and  wondering  to  see  the 
quiet,  yet  alert,  shopman,  who,  for  fifteen  years,  had 
frittered  away  the  minufcs  in  selling  pennyworths 
of  tape  and  needles,  transformed  into  a  man  of 
great  elevation  of  soul,  and  deep,  tender  feeling. 
"And  this  man  is  my  "husband,"  said  she,  casting 
her  eyes  up  to  his  handsome  countenance,  which 
was  all  radiant  with  joy  as  her  eye  met  his. 

First  they  installed  Rona  in  her  house.  Every 
thing  that  heart  could  wish  was  there,  down  to  the 
minutest  thing  ;  and  beautiful  every  thing  was;  for 
dear  Jenny — see,  reader,  I  have  dropped  the  other 
name — had  an  exquisite  taste.  And  then,  Ida  took 
possession  of  her  home,  exactly  like  her  sister's,  in 
point  of  beauty  and  completeness;  but  different 
l!  only  in  fancy.  Then  Mrs.  Armstrong  was  taken  to 
her  house:  every  thing  complete,  like  the  other 
two,  only  the  furniture^a  thought  more  grave.  Then 
the  whole  flock  proceeded  to  the  fourth  house — it 
was  the  one  for  the  father  and  mother — good,  ho- 
nest Martin  Barton  and  his  wife;  this  also  was  a 
model  of  comfort  and  beauty.  The  whole  party 
stood  on  the  steps  and  under  the  portico. 

"Step  in  Jenny  Hart — dear  Jenny  Campbell, 
now" — said  Martin  Barton,  "  step  in,  Archy  Camp- 
bell; I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  one  thing;  and 
that  is,  that  I  cannot  let  you  have  the  thread  and 
needle  store;  I  have  made  it  all  over  to  Peter 
Squire  and  Jacob  Teller." — Jacob  Teller  was  the 
fifth  clerk. 

Jenny  turned  pale  and  Archy  red — "  Come  this 
way,  Hosea  Bringle,"  said  old  Mr.  Daly,  "don't  go 
to  cry,  man,  you'll  hear  all  presently — come,  son 
and  daughter,  make  haste,  it  is  getting  late." 

"Jenny  Hart,  my  own  Jenny,"  said  Mrs.  Martin 


300       THE  THREAD  AND  NEEDLE  STORE. 

Barton,  drying  her  eyes,  "  this  house,  and  all  in  it, 
is  yours;  and  here  comes  Mr.  Norton,  to  make 
over  to  you  one-fifth  of  the  money  you  helped  us 
to  make.  What,  did  you  think  we -could  hear  to 
see  you  toil,  and  toil  again,  as  you  have  done:  and 
Archy  Campbell,  too— so  in  with  you."  And  in 
they  went,  with  hearts  tooffull  to  thank  their  friends. 

There  was,  indeed,  plenty  of  room  at  Mr.  Daly's 
for  Martin  Barton  and  his  wife,  and  little  Betty  and 
all;  and,  as  to  Hosea  Bringle,  he  was  a  fixture 
there.  Mrs.  Armstrong,  as  I  said,  did  not  live  alone 
long,  in  her  handsome  house. 

And  now,  gentle  reader,  I  must  leave  off.  But 
would  you  not  like  to  hear  more  of  our  dear  Jenny 
— how  she  managed  her  house  and  her  gardens, 
and  the  poor  people  in  the  neighbourhood — and 
how  her  husband  idolized  her;  and  how  all  the  old 
customers,  rich  and  poor,  came  to  see  her,  and  par- 
take of  her  hospitalities.  Only  let  me  know,  ar 
I  will  tell  you  more  of  her,  and  how  Hosea  Brii 
gle  read  to  the  four  innocent  people  every  evening, 
either  some  good  book  or  other;  or  in  the  Arabian 
Nights;  and  how  they  blended  the  genii  that  wanted 
to  kill  the  merchant,  with  the  giant  in  Pilgrim's 
Progress.  And  haw  the  old  man  sat  whittling  with 
a  penknife,  making  weathercocks  for  the  stables ; 
and,  finally,  little  go-carts,  and  little  wheelbarrows, 
and  little  rakes,  for  the  young  family  that  was  fast 
rising  up  around  him.  They  could  not  come  too 
fast  for  old  Hosea  Bringle.  And  then,  how  easy  it 
came  to  Martin  Barton  to  take  care  of  a  garden; 
working  as  hard  at  it  as  he  did  in  his  thread  and 
needle  store.  Only  encourage  me,  and  I  will  write 
on ;  or  drop  a  line  in  the  Evening  Star,  and  thft 
American,  of  New  York,  and  my  pen  will  soon,  be 
set  going  again. 

THE  END. 


